; 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


WILD   LIFE   NEAR   HOME 


"  The  feast  is  finished  and  the  games  are  on.' 


Xife  IReac 
Dome 


2>alia0  lore  Sbarp 


TUOUtb  IFUustrations 
3Bg  JBruce  Iborsfall 


NEW  YORK 

ZTbe  Century  Co, 

1901 


Copyright,  1901,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Copyright,  1897,  by  THE  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  Co. 
/      Copyright,  1897,  by  PERRY  MASON  &  Co. 
Copyright,  1898,  by  FRANK  LESLIE'S  PUBLISHING  HOUSE. 

Published  October,  1901. 


5 


TO 
MY   WIFE 


JVJ351786 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

IN  PERSIMMON-TIME 1 

BIRDS'  WINTER  BEDS  .  .  .  .  31 
SOME  SNUG  WINTER  BEDS  .  .  .47 
A  BIRD  or  THE  DARK  .  .  .  .65 
THE  PINE-TREE  SWIFT  .  .  .  .79 
IN  THE  OCTOBER  MOON  .  .  .  .95 
FEATHERED  NEIGHBORS  ....  Ill 

"MUS'RATTIN'  "      .  .  .  .  .  .169 

A  STUDY  IN  BIRD  MORALS        .  .  185 

EABBIT  ROADS    .        .        .        .        .        .207 

BRICK-TOP  ".        .        .        .        .        .        .  233 

SECOND  CROPS 247 

WOOD-PUSSIES 277 

FROM  RIVER-OOZE  TO  TREE-TOP  .  .  295 
A  BUZZARDS'  BANQUET  .  .  .  .  321 
UP  HERRING  RUN 341 

I  wish  to  thank  the  editors  of  "  Lippincott's  Magazine,"  "  Frank 
Leslie's  Popular  Monthly,"  "Zion's  Herald,"  and  the  "Youth's 
Companion  "  for  allowing  me  to  reprint  here  the  chapters  of 
"  Wild  Life  Near  Home  "  that  first  appeared  in  their  pages. 

r       •  -i  DALLAS  LORE  SHARP. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  feast  is  finished  and  the  games  are  on  Frontispiece 
Ripe  and  rimy  with  November's  frosts  ...  5 
Swinging  from  the  limbs  by  their  long  prehen- 
sile tails 7 

Under  such  conditions  he  looks  quite  like  a  fero- 
cious beast       . 10 

Filing  through  the  corn-stubs 13 

Here  on  the  fence  we  waited 16 

He  had  stopped  for  a  meal  on  his  way  out     .        .  20 

Playing  possum .        .        .     . 22 

She  was  standing  off  a  dog 26 

The  cheerful    little    goldfinches,   that  bend  the 

dried  ragweeds 37 

There  she  stood  in  the  snow  with  head  high,  lis- 
tening anxiously 45 

And  —  dreamed 46 

I  shivered  as  the  icy  flakes  fell  thicker  and  faster  52 

The  meadow-mouse 55 

It  was  Whitefoot        .        .        .        .        .        .        .60 

From  his  leafless  height  he  looks  down  into  the 

Hollow 63 

It  caught  at  the  insects  in  the  air    .        .        .        .71 
[xiii] 


PAGE 

Unlike  any  bird  of  the  light     .        .       ...        .77 

They  peek  around  the  tree-trunks  .        .        .        .83 

The  sparrow-hawk  searching  the  fences  for  them  88 
In  October  they  are  building  their  winter  lodges  103 
The  glimpse  of  Reynard  in  the  moonlight  .  .  106 
They  probe  the  lawns  most  diligently  for  worms .  117 

Even  he  loves  a  listener 118 

She  flew  across  the  pasture 121 

Putting  things  to  rights  in  his  house  .  .  .  122 
A  very  ordinary  New  England  "  corner  "  .  .  124 
They  are  the  first  to  return  in  the  spring  .  .  127 
Where  the  dams  are  hawking  for  flies  .  .  .  130 

They  cut  across  the  rainbow 135 

The  barn-swallows  fetch  the  summer  .  .  .  137 
From  the  barn  to  the  orchard 138 

Across  the  road,  in  an  apple-tree,  built  a  pair  of 
redstarts 140 

Gathered  half  the  gray  hairs  of  a  dandelion  into 
her  beak 143 

In  the  tree  next  to  the  chebec's  was  a  brood  of 
robins.  The  crude  nest  was  wedged  carelessly 
into  the  lowest  fork  of  the  tree,  so  that  the  cats 
and  roving  boys  could  help  themselves  without 
trouble 145 

I  soon  spied  him  on  the  wires  of  a  telegraph-pole  148 

He  will  come  if  May  comes 151 

Within  a  few  feet  of  me  dropped  the  lonely  fright- 
ened quail  ........  152 

On  they  go  to  a  fence-stake 154 

[xiv] 


PAGE 

It  was  a  love-song      .../..        .        .  156 

But  the  pair  kept  on  together,  chatting  brightly  161 
In  a  dead  yellow  birch      ....        .        .        .  163 

So  close  I  can  look  directly  into  it  .        .        .       . .  164 

Uncle  Jethro  limbered  his  stiffened  knees  and 

went  chuckling  down  the  bank  ....  170 
The  big  moon  was  rising  over  the  meadows  .  .  173 
Section  of  muskrat's  house  .  .  .  .  .  174 
The  snow  has  drifted  over  their  house  till  only  a 

tiny  mound  appears  ......  177 

They  rubbed  noses 179 

Two  little  brown  creatures  washing  calamus  .  180 
She  melted  away  among  the  dark  pines  like  a 

shadow 186 

She  called  me  every  wicked  thing  that  she  could 

think  of .  .189 

It  was  one  of  those  cathedral-like  clumps  .  .  191 

They  were  watching  me 192 

A  triumph  of  love  and  duty  over  fear     .        .        .  199 
He  wants  to  know  where  I  am  and  what  I  am  about  203 
In  the  agony  of  death        ......  205 

Calamity  is  hot  on  his  track 212 

Bunny,    meantime,   is  watching  just  inside  the 
next  brier-patch 215 

The  squat  is  a  cold  place 217 

The  limp,  lifeless  one  hanging  over  the  neck  of 
that  fox 220 

His  drop  is  swift  and  certain 225 

Seven  young  ones  in  the  nest 231 

[XV] 


PAGE  f 

The  land  of  the  mushroom  .  .  .  .  .  239 
Witch-hazel  .  .  .  .  ....  ,.244 

I  knew  it  suited  exactly 252 

With  tail  up,  head  cocked,  very  much  amazed, 

and  commenting  vociferously  ....  254 
In  a  solemn  row  upon  the  wire  fence  .  .  .  257 

Young  flying-squirrels 258 

The  sentinel  crows  are  posted  ....  260 
She  turned  and  fixed  her  big  black  eyes  hard  on 

me 265 

Wrapped  up  like  little  Eskimos  .  .  .  .266 
It  is  no  longer  a  sorry  forest  of  battered,  sunken 

stumps 269 

Even  the  finger-board  is  a  living  pillar  of  ivy  .  272 
A  family  of  seven  young  skunks  ....  284 

The  family  followed 289 

"Spring!  spring!  spring!" 300 

A  wretched  little  puddle 303 

He  was  trying  to  swallow  something  .  .  .  307 

In  a  state  of  soured  silence 322 

Ugliness  incarnate 325 

Sailing  over  the  pines 328 

A  banquet  this  sans  toasts  and  cheer  .  .  .333 
Floating  without  effort  among  the  clouds  .  .  337 
From  unknown  regions  of  the  ocean  .  .  .  345 
A  crooked,  fretful  little  stream  .  .  .  .346 
Swimming,  jumping,  flopping,  climbing,  up  he 

comes ! •  •  •  349 

Here  again  hungry  enemies  await  them  .  .  355 
[xvi] 


IN   PEKSIMMON-TIME 


WILD  LIFE   NEAK  HOME 


IN   PEKSIMMON-TIME 

ri\EE  season  of  ripe  persimmons  in  the  pine- 
jL.  barren  region  of  New  Jersey  falls  during 
the  days  of  frosty  mornings,  of  wind -strewn 
leaves  and  dropping  nuts.  Melancholy  days 
these  may  be  in  other  States,  but  never  such 
here.  The  robin  and  the  wren— I  am  not  sure 
about  all  of  the  wrens— are  flown,  just  as  the 
poet  says ;  but  the  jay  and  the  crow  are  by  no 
means  the  only  birds  that  remain.  Bob  White 
calls  from  the  swales  and  "cut-offs"  ;  the  cardi- 
nal sounds  his  clear,  brilliant  whistle  in  the 
thickets;  and  the  meadow-lark,  scaling  across 

[3] 


the  pastures,  flirts  his  tail  from  the  fence-stake 
and  shouts,  Can  you  see-e  me  ?  These  are  some 
of  the  dominant  notes  that  still  ring  through 
the  woods  and  over  the  fields.  Nor  has  every 
fleck  of  color  gone  from  the  face  of  the  out-of- 
doors.  She  is  not  yet  a  cold,  white  body 
wrapped  in  her  winding-sheet.  The  flush  of 
life  still  lingers  in  the  stag-horn  sumac,  where 
it  will  burn  brighter  and  warmer  as  the  short- 
ening days  darken  and  deaden  ;  and  there  is 
more  than  a  spark— it  is  a  steady  glow— on  the 
hillsides,,  where  the  cedar,  pine,  and  holly 
stand,  that  will  live  and  cheer  us  throughout 
the  winter.  What  the  soil  has  lost  of  life  and 
vigor  the  winds  have  gained ;  and  if  the  birds 
are  fewer  now,  there  is  a  stirring  of  other  ani- 
mal life  in  the  open  woods  and  wilder  places  that 
was  quite  lost  in  the  bustle  of  summer. 

And  yet !  it  is  a  bare  world,  in  spite  of  the 
snap  and  crispness  and  the  signs  of  harvest  every- 
where j  a  wider,  silenter,  sadder  world,  though  I 
cannot  own  a  less  beautiful  world,  than  in  sum- 
mer. The  corn  is  cut,  the  great  yellow  shocks 
standing  over  the  level  fields  like  weather- 
beaten  tepees  in  deserted  Indian  villages  j  frosts 

[4] 


have  mown  the  grass  and  stripped  the  trees,  so 
that,  from  a  bluff  along  the  creek,  the  glistening 
Cohansey  can  be  traced  down  miles  of  its  course, 
and  through  the  parted  curtains,  wide  vistas  of 
meadow  and  farm  that  were  entirely  hidden  by 
the  green  foliage  lie  open  like  a  map. 

This  is  persimmon-time.  Since  most  of  the 
leaves  have  fallen,  there  is  no  trouble  in  finding 
the  persimmon-trees.  They  are  sprinkled  about 
the  woods,  along  the  fences  and  highways,  as 


"  Ripe  and  rimy  with  November's  frosts." 

naked  as  the  other  trees,  but  conspicuous  among 
them  all  because  of  their  round,  dark-red  fruit. 
What  a  season  of  fruit  ours  is  !  Opening  down 
in  the  grass  with  the  wild  strawberries  of  May, 
and  continuing  without  break  or  stint,  to  close 
high  in  the  trees  with  the  persimmon,  ripe  and 
rimy  with  November's  frosts  !  The  persimmon 

[5] 


is  the  last  of  the  fruits.  Long  before  November 
the  apples  are  gathered— even  the  "  grindstones  " 
are  buried  by  this  time ;  the  berries,  too,  have 
disappeared,  except  for  such  seedy,  juiceless 
things  as  hang  to  the  cedar,  the  dogwood,  and 
greenbrier  ;  and  the  birds  have  finished  the  scat- 
tered, hidden  clusters  of  racy  chicken-grapes. 
The  persimmons  still  hold  on  j  but  these  are  not 
for  long,  unless  you  keep  guard  over  the  trees, 
for  they  are  marked  :  the  possums  have  counted 
every  persimmon. 

You  Thrill  often  wonder  why  you  find  so  few 
persimmons  upon  the  ground  after  a  windy, 
frosty  night.  Had  you  happened  under  the 
trees  just  before  daybreak,  you  would  have  seen 
a  possum  climbing  about  in  the  highest  branches, 
where  the  frost  had  most  keenly  nipped  the  fruit. 
You  would  probably  have  seen  two  or  three  up 
the  trees,  if  persimmons  were  scarce  and  possums 
plentiful  in  the  neighborhood,  swinging  from 
the  limbs  by  their  long  prehensile  tails,  and 
reaching  out  to  the  ends  of  the  twigs  to  gather 
in  the  soft,  sugary  globes.  Should  the  wind  be 
high  and  the  fruit  dead  ripe,  you  need  not  look 
into  the  trees  for  the  marauders ;  they  will  be 

[6] 


upon  the  ground,  nosing  out  the  lumps  as  they 
fall.  A  possum  never  does  anything  for  him- 
self that  he  can  let  the  gods  do  for  him. 

Your  tree  is  perhaps  near  the  road  and  an  old 
rail-pile.  Then  you  may  expect  to  find  your  per- 
simmons rolled  up  in  possum  fat  among  the  rails  ; 
for  here  the  thieves  are  sure  to  camp  through- 
out the  persimmon  season,  as  the  berry-pickers 
camp  in  the  pines  during  huckleberry-time. 

Possums  and  persimmons  come  together,  and 
Uncle  Jethro  pronounces  them  "bofe  good  fruit." 
He  is  quite  right.  The  old  darky  is  not  alone  in 
his  love  of  possums.  To  my  thinking,  he  shows 
a  nice  taste  in  preferring  November  possum  to 
chicken. 

It  is  a  common  thing,  in  passing  through 
Mount  Zion  or  Springtown  in  the  winter,  to  see 
what,  at  first  glance,  looks  like  a  six-weeks7  pig 
hanging  from  an  up -stairs  window,  but  which, 

[7] 


"  Swinging  from  the 
limbs  by  their  long 
prehensile  tails." 


on  inspection,  proves  to  be  a  possum,  scalded, 
scraped,  and  cleaned  for  roasting,  suspended 
there,  out  of  the  reach  of  dogs  and  covetous 
neighbors,  for  the  extra  flavor  of  a  freezing. 
Now  stuff  it  and  roast  it,  and  I  will  swap  my 
Thanksgiving  turkey  for  it  as  quickly  as  will 
Uncle  Jethro  himself. 

Though  the  possum  is  toothsome,  he  is  such 
a  tame,  lumbering  dolt  that  few  real  sportsmen 
care  for  the  sorry  joy  of  killing  him.  Innumer- 
able stories  have  been  told  of  the  excitement  of 
possum -hunting ;  but  after  many  winters,  well 
sprinkled  with  moonlight  tramps  and  possums, 
I  can  liken  the  sport  to  nothing  more  thrilling 
than  a  straw-ride  or  a  quilting-party. 

There^  is  the  exhilarating  tramp  through  the 
keen,  still  night,  and  if  possum-hunting  will  take 
one  out  to  the  woods  for  such  tramps,  then  it 
is  quite  worth  while. 

No  one  could  hunt  possums  except  at  night. 
It  would  be  unendurably  dull  by  daylight.  The 
moon  and  the  dark  lend  a  wonderful  largeness 
to  the  woods,  transforming  the  familiar  day- 
scenes  into  strange,  wild  regions  through  which 
it  is  an  adventure  merely  to  walk.  There  is 

[8] 


magic  in  darkness.  However  dead  by  day,  the 
fields  and  woods  are  fully  alive  at  night.  We 
stop  at  the  creaking  of  the  bare  boughs  over- 
head as  if  some  watchful  creature  were  about  to 
spring  upon  us ;  every  stump  and  bush  is  an 
animal  that  we  have  startled  into  sudden  fixed- 
ness ;  and  out  of  every  shadow  we  expect  a 
live  thing  to  rise  up  and  withstand  us.  The 
hoot  of  the  owl,  the  bark  of  the  fox,  the  whinny 
of  the  coon,  send  shivers  of  excitement  over  us. 
We  jump  at  a  mouse  in  the  leaves  near  by. 

Helped  out  by  the  spell  of  moonlight  and 
the  collusion  of  a  ready  fancy,  it  is  possible  to 
have  a  genuine  adventure  by  seizing  a  logy, 
grinning  possum  by  the  tail  and  dragging  him 
out  of  a  stump.  Under  such  conditions  he 
looks  quite  like  a  ferocious  beast,  grunting  and 
hissing  with  wide-open  mouth  ;  and  you  may 
feel  just  a  thrill  of  the  real  savage's  joy  as  you 
sling  him  over  your  shoulder. 

But  never  go  after  possums  alone,  nor  with  a 
white  man.  If  you  must  go,  then  go  with  Uncle 
Jethro  and  Calamity.  I  remember  particularly 
one  night's  hunt  with  Uncle  Jethro.  I  had  come 
upon  him  in  the  evening  out  on  the  kitchen  steps 
[9] 


Under  such  conditions  he  looks  quite  like  a  ferocious  beast. 


watching  the  rim  of  the  rising  moon  across  the 
dark,  stubby  corn-field.  It  was  November,  and 
the  silver  light  was  spreading  a  plate  of  frost  over 
the  field  and  its  long,  silent  rows  of  corn-shocks. 

When  Uncle  Jethro  studied  the  clouds  or  the 
moon  in  this  way,  it  meant  a  trip  to  the  mea- 
dows or  the  swamp  ;  it  was  a  sure  sign  that  geese 
had  gone  over,  that  the  possums  and  coons  were 
running. 

I  knew  to-night— for  I  could  smell  the  per- 
fume of  the  ripe  persimmons  on  the  air — that 
down  by  the  creek,  among  the  leafless  tops  of 
the  persimmon-trees,  Uncle  Jethro  saw  a  possum. 

"Is  it  Br'er  Possum  or  Br'er  Coon,  Uncle 
Jethro ? "  I  asked,  slyly,  just  as  if  I  did  not  know. 

"Boosh!  boosh!"  sputtered  the  old  darky, 
terribly  scared  by  my  sudden  appearance. 
"Wat  yo'  'xplodin'  my  cogitations  lak  dat  fo'? 
Wat  I  know  'bout  any  possum1?  Possum,  boy? 
Possum?  Wat  yo' mean  ?" 

"Don't  you  sniff  the  'siminons,  Uncle  Jeth?" 

Instinctively  he  threw  his  nose  into  the  air. 

"G'  'way,  boy  j  g'  'way  fum  yhere  !  I  ain't  seen 
no  possum.  I  's  thinkin'  'bout  dat  las'  camp- 
meetin'  in  de  pines"  ;  and  he  began  to  hum : 


"  Lawd,  I  wunda,  who  kilt  John  Henry, 
In  de  la-ane,  in  de  lane." 

Half  an  hour  later  we  were  filing  through 
the  corn-stubs  toward  the  creek.  Uncle  Jethro 
carried  his  long  musket  under  his  arm  ;  I  had  a 
stout  hickory  stick  and  a  meal-sack  ;  while  ahead 
of  us,  like  a  sailor  on  shore,  rolled  Calamity,  the 
old  possum-dog. 

If  in  June  come  perfect  days,  then  perfect 
nights  come  in  November.  There  is  one  thing, 
at  least,  as  rare  as  a  June  day,  and  that  is  a  clear, 
keen  November  night,  enameled  with  frost  and 
set  with  the'  hunter's  moon. 

Uncle  Jethro  was  not  thinking  of  last  summer's 
camp-meeting  now  ;  but  still  he  crooned  softly  a 
camp -meeting  melody : 

"  Sheep  an'  de  goats  a- 

Gwine  to  de  pastcha, 
Sheep  tell  de  goats,  *  Ain't  yo' 
Walkaleetlefasta?' 

"  Lawd,  I  wunda,  who  kilt  John  Henry, 
In  de  la-ane,  in  de  lane. 

"  Coon  he  up  a  gum-tree, 

Possum  in  de  holla; 
Coon  he  roll  hi'self  in  ha'r, 
Possum  roll  in  talla. 

"Lawd,  I  wunda — " 
[12] 


until  we  began  to  skirt  Cubby  Hollow,  when  he 
suddenly  brought  himself  up  with  a  snap. 

It  was  Calamity  "talkiii'  in  one  of  her  tongues." 
The  short,  sharp  bark  came  down  from  the  fence 
at  the  brow  of  the  hill.  Uncle  Jethro  listened. 


"  Filing  through  the  corn-stubs." 

"Jis  squirrel-talk,  dat.  She. '11  talk  possum 
by-um-bit,  she  will.  Ain't  no  possum-dog  in  des 
diggin's  kin  talk  possum  wid  C'lamity.  An' 
w'en  she  talk  possum,  ol'  man  possum  gotter 
listen.  Sell  C'lamity?  Dat  dog  can't  be  bought, 
she  can't." 

[13] 


As  we  came  under  the  persimmon-trees  at  the 
foot  of  Lupton's  Pond,  the  moon  was  high  enough 
to  show  us  that  no  possum  had  been  here  yet, 
for  there  was  abundance  of  the  luscious,  frost- 
nipped  fruit  upon  the  ground.  In  the  bare  trees 
the  persimmons  hung  like  silver  beads.  We 
stopped  to  gather  a  few,  when  Calamity  woke 
the  woods  with  her  cry. 

"Dar  he  is  !  C'lamity  done  got  oP  man  pos- 
sum now  !  Down  by  de  bend !  Dat  's  possum- 
talk,  big  talk,  fat  talk  !  "  And  we  hurried  after 
the  dog. 

We  had  j^one  half  a  mile,  and  Uncle  Jethro 
had  picked  himself  up  at  least  three  times,  when 
I  protested. 

"Uncle  Jeth!"  I  cried,  "that  >s  an  awfully 
long-legged  possum.  He  '11  run  all  his  fat  off 
before  we  catch  him." 

"Dat  's  so,  boy,  shu'  'nough  !  W'at  dat  oF 
fool  dog  tree  a  long-legged  possum  fo',  nohow? 
Yer,  C'lamity,  'lamity,  yer,  yer ! "  he  yelled,  as 
the  hound  doubled  and  began  to  track  the  rabbit 
back  toward  us. 

We  were  thoroughly  cooled  before  Calamity 
appeared.  She  was  boxed  on  the  ear  and  sent 
[14] 


off  again  with  the  command  to  talk  possum  next 
time  or  be  shot. 

She  was  soon  talking  again.  This  time  it 
must  be  possum-talk.  There  could  be  no  mis- 
take about  that  long,  steady,  placid  howl.  The 
dog  must  be  under  a  tree  or  beside  a  stump  wait- 
ing for  us.  As  Uncle  Jethro  heard  the  cry  he 
chuckled,  and  a  new  moon  broke  through  his 
dusky  countenance. 

"Yhear  dat?  Dat  's  possum-talk.  C'lamity 
done  meet  up  wid  de  oF  man  dis  time,  shuV 

And  so  she  had,  as  far  as  we  could  see.  She 
was  lying  restfully  on  the  bank  of  a  little  stream, 
her  head  in  the  air,  singing  that  long,  lonesome 
strain  which  Uncle  Jethro  called  her  possum - 
talk.  It  was  a  wonderfully  faithful  reproduction 
of  her  master's  camp-meeting  singing.  One  of 
his  weird,  wordless  melodies  seemed  to  have 
passed  into- -the  old  dog's  soul. 

But  what  was  she  calling  us  for  ?  As  we  came 
up  we  looked  around  for  the  tree,  the  stump,  the 
fallen  log  j  but  there  was  not  a  splinter  in  sight. 
Uncle  Jethro  was  getting  nervous.  Calamity 
rose,  as  we  approached,  and  pushed  her  muzzle 
into  a  muskrat's  smooth,  black  hole.  This  was 
[15] 


too  much.     She  saw  it,  and  hung  her  head,  for 
she  knew  what  was  coming. 

"Look  yhere,  yo'  obtuscious  oF  fool.  Wat 
yo'  'sociatin'  wid  a  low-down  possum  as  takes  t' 
mus'rats'  holes'?  Wat  I  done  toP  yo'  'bout 
dis  ?  Go  'long  home !  Go  'long  en  talk  de 
moon  up  a  tree."  And  as  Uncle  Jethro  dropped 
upon  his  knees  by  the  hole,  Calamity  slunk 
away  through  the  brush. 

I  held  up  a  bunch  of  freshly  washed  grass- 
roots. 

"Uncle  Jeth,  this  must  be  a  new  species  of 
possum ;  ^he  eats  roots  like  any  muskrat,"  I 
said  innocently. 

It  was  good  for  Calamity  not  to  be  there  just 
then.  Uncle  Jethro  loved  her  as  he  would  have 
loved  a  child  ;  but  he  vowed,  as  he  picked  up  his 
gun  :  "De  nex'  time  dat  no-'count  dog  don't  talk 
possum,  yo'  '11  see  de  buzzard  'bout,  yo'  will." 

We  tramped  up  the  hill  and  on  through  the 
woods  to  some  open  fields.  Here  on  the  fence 
we  waited  for  Calamity's  signal. 

"Did  you  say  you  would  n't  put  any  price  on 
Calamity,  Uncle  Jethro  ?  "  I  asked  as  we  waited. 

There  was  no  reply. 

[16] 


"  Here    on    the 
fence  we  waited.' 


" Going  to  roast  this  possum,  are  n't  you?" 

Silence. 

"Am  I  going  to  have  an  invite.  Uncle  Jeth?" 

"Hush  up,  boy !  How  we  gwine  yhear  w'at 
dat  dog  say?" 

"Calamity?  Why,  did  n't  you  tell  her  to  go 
home?" 

The  woods  were  still.  A  little  screech-owl 
off  in  the  trees  was  the  only  creature  that  dis- 
turbed the  brittle  silence.  The  owl  was  flitting 
from  perch  to  perch,  coming  nearer  us. 

"W'at  dat  owl  say  ?  "  whispered  Uncle  Jethro, 
starting.  "  t  No  possum '  ?  l  no  possum '  ?  '  no  pos- 
sum '  ?  Come  'long  home,  boy,"  he  commanded 
aloud.  "W'eu  ol'  Miss  Owl  say  <No  possum,' 
C'lamity  herself  ain't  gwine  git  none."  And 
sliding  to  the  ground,  he  trudged  off  for  home. 

We  were  back  again  in  the  corn-field  with 
an  empty  sack.  The  moon  was  riding  high  near 
eleven  o'clock.  From  behind  a  shock  Calamity 
joined  us,  falling  in  at  the  rear  like  one  of  our 
shadows.  Of  course  Uncle  Jethro  did  not  see 
her.  He  was  proud  of  the  rheumatic  old  hound, 
and  a  night  like  this  nipped  his  pride  as  the 
first  frosts  nip  the  lima-beans. 
[17] 


It  was  the  owl's  evil  doing,  he  argued  all  the 
way  home.  "Wen  oF  Miss  Owl  say  'Stay  in'  — 

no  use  : 

'Simmons  sweet,  'simmons  red, 
Ain't  no  possum  leave  his  bed. 

All  de  dogs  in  Mount  Zion  won't  fin'  no  pos- 
sum out  dis  night." 

No  ;  it  was  not  Calamity's  fault :  it  was  Miss 
Owl's. 

We  were  turning  in  back  of  the  barn  when 
there  came  a  sudden  yelp,  sharp  as  a  pistol-shot, 
and  Calamity  darted  through  Uncle  Jethro's 
legs,  almost  upsetting  him,  making  straight  for 
the  yard.  At  the  same  moment  I  caught  sight 
of  a  large  creature  hurrying  with  a  wabbly, 
uncertain  gait  along  the  ridge-pole  of  the  hen- 
house. 

It  was  a  possum— as  big  as  a  coon.  He  was 
already  half-way  down  the  side  of  the  coop  5  but 
Calamity  was  below  him,  howling  like  mad. 

Uncle  Jethro  nearly  unjointed  himself.  Be- 
fore the  frightened  animal  had  time  to  faint,  the 
triumphant  hunter  was  jouncing  him  up  and 
down  inside  the  sack,  and  promising  the  bones 
and  baking-pan  to  Calamity. 
[18] 


"Wat  dat  yo'  mumbling  boy?  Gwine  ax 
yo'self  a'  invite?  G'  'way  5  g'  'way  ; .  yo'  don' 
lak  possum.  Wat  dat  yo'  sayin'  'g'in'  C'lamity  ? 
Yo'  's  needin'  sleep,  chil',  yo'  is.  Ain't  I  done 
tor  yo'  dat  dog  gwine  talk  possum  by-um-bit? 
Wat  dem  'flections  'g'in'  oF  Miss  Owl? 
Boosh,  boy !  Dat  all  fool-talk,  w'at  oF  Miss 
Owl  say.  We  done  been  lay  in'  low  jis  s' prise 
yo',  me  an'  C'lamity  an'  oP  Miss  Owl  has." 
And  as  he  placed  the  chopping-block  upon  the 
barrel  to  keep  the  possum  safe  till  morning,  he 
began  again : 

"  Coon  he  up  a  gum-tree, 

Possum  in  de  holla; 
Coon  he  roll  hi' self  in  ha'r, 
Possum  roll  in  talla. 

"  Lawd,  I  wunda,  who  kilt  John  Henry, 
In  de  la-ane,  in  de  lane." 

The  next  morning  Uncle  Jethro  went  to  get 
his  possum.  But  the  possum  was  gone.  The 
chopping-block  lay  on  the  woodshed  floor,  the 
cover  of  the  barrel  was  pushed  aside,  and  the 
only  trace  of  the  animal  was  a  bundle  of  seed- 
corn  that  he  had  pulled  from  a  nail  overhead 
and  left  half  eaten  on  the  floor.  He  had  stopped 
for  a  meal  oa  his  way  out. 
[19] 


Uncle  Jethro,  with  Uncle  Remus,  gives  Br'er 
Rabbit  the  wreath  for  craft ;  but  in  truth  the 
laurel  belongs  to  Br'er  Possum.  He  is  an  eter- 
nal surprise.  Either  he  is  the  most  stupidly 
wise  animal  of  the  woods,  or  the  most  wisely 


"  He  had  stopped  for  a 
meal  on  his  way  out." 


stupid.  He  is  a  puzzle.  Apparently  his  one 
unburied  talent  is  heaviness.  Joe,  the  fat  boy, 
was  not  a  sounder  nor  more  constant  sleeper, 
nor  was  his  mental  machinery  any  slower  than 
the  possum's.  The  little  beast  is  utterly  want- 
ing in  swiftness  and  weapons,  his  sole  hope  and 
defense  being  luck  and  indifference.  To  luck 
and  indifference  he  trusts  life  and  happiness. 
And  who  can  say  he  does  not  prosper — that  he 
does  not  roll  in  fat  ? 

I  suppose  there  once  were  deer  and  otter  in 
[20] 


the  stretches  of  wild  woodland  along  the  Cohan- 
sey  ;  but  a  fox  is  rare  here  now,  and  the  coon 
by  110  means  abundant.  Indeed,  the  rabbit, 
even  with  the  help  of  the  game  laws,  has  a  hard 
time.  Yet  the  possum,  unprotected  by  law, 
slow  of  foot,  slower  of  thought,  and  worth  fifty 
cents  in  any  market,  still  nourishes  along  the 
creek. 

A  greyhound  must  push  to  overtake  a  rabbit, 
but  I  have  run  down  a  possum  with  my  winter 
boots  on  in  less  than  half-way  across  a  clean 
ten-acre  field.  He  ambles  along  like  a  bear, 
swinging  his  head  from  side  to  side  to  see  how 
fast  you  are  gaining  upon  him.  When  you 
come  up  and  touch  him  with  your  foot,  over  he 
goes,  grunting  and  grinning  with  his  mouth 
wide  open.  If  you  nudge  him  further,  or  bark, 
he  will  die— but  he  will  come  to  life  again  when 
you  turn  your  back. 

Some  scientifically  minded  people  believe 
that  this  "playing  possum"  follows  as  a  physio- 
logical effect  of  fear  ;  that  is,  they  say  the  pulse 
slackens,  the  temperature  falls,  and,  as  a  result, 
instead  of  a  pretense  of  being  dead,  the  poor 
possum  actually  swoons. 

[21] 


A  physiologist  in  his  laboratory,  with  stetho- 
scope, sphygmoscope,  thermometer,  and  pneu- 
monometer,  may  be  able  to  scare  a  possum  into 
a  fit— I  should  say  he  might  j  but  I  doubt  if  a 
plain  naturalist  in  the  woods,  with  only  his  two 
eyes,  a  jack-knife,  and  a  bit  of  string,  was  ever 
able  to  make  the  possum  do  more  than  "play 
possum." 

We  will  try  to  believe  with  the  laboratory 
investigator  that  the  possum  does  genuinely 
faint.  However,  it  will  not  be  rank  heresy  to 
run  over  this  leaf  from  my  diary.  It  records  a 
faithful  diagnosis  of  the  case  as  I  observed  it. 
The  statement  does  not  claim  to  be  scientific  ; 
I  mean  that  there  were  no  'meters  or  'scopes 
of  any  kind  used.  It  is  simply  what  I  saw  and 
have  seen  a  hundred  times.  Here  is  the  entry  : 

POSSUM-FAINT 

Cause.    My  sudden  appearance  before  the  patient. 

Symptoms.  A  backing  away  with  open  mouth  and 
unpleasant  hisses  until  forcibly  stopped,  when  the 
patient  falls  on  one  side,  limp  and  helpless,  a  long, 
unearthly  smile  overspreading  the  face ;  the  off  eye 
closed,  the  near  eye  just  ajar ;  no  muscular  twitching, 
but  most  decided  attempts  to  get  up  and  run  as  soon 
as  my  back  is  turned. 

[22] 


Playing  possum. 


Treatment.    My  non-interference. 

Note.  Recovery  instantaneous  with  my  removal 
ten  feet.  This  whole  performance  repeated  twelve 
times  in  as  many  minutes. 

December  26,  1893. 

I  have  known  the  possum  too  long  for  a  ready 
faith  in  his  extreme  nervousness,  too  long  to 
believe  him  so  hysterical  that  the  least  surprise 
can  frighten  him  into  fits.  He  has  a  reasonable 
fear  of  dogs ;  no  fear  at  all  of  cats ;  and  will 
take  his  chances  any  night  with  a  coon  for  the 
possession  of  a  hollow  log.  He  will  live  in  the 
same  burrow  with  other  possums,  with  owls, — 
with  anything  in  fact,— and  overlook  any  bear- 
able imposition ;  he  will  run  away  from  every- 
thing, venture  anywhere,  and  manage  to  escape 
from  the  most  impossible  situations.  Is  this  an 
epileptic,  an  unstrung,  flighty  creature?  Pos- 
sibly ;  but  look  at  him.  He  rolls  in  fat ;  and 
how  long  has  obesity  been  the  peculiar  accom- 
paniment of  nervousness  ? 

It  is  the   amazing  coolness   of  the  possum, 

however,  that  most  completely  disposes  of  the 

scientist's  pathetic  tale  of  unsteady  nerves.     A 

creature  that  will  deliberately  walk  into  a  trap, 

[23] 


spring  it,  eat  the  bait,  then  calmly  lie  down  and 
sleep  until  the  trapper  comes,  has  no  nerves. 
I  used  to  catch  a  possum,  now  and  then,  in  the 
box-traps  set  for  rabbits.  It  is  a  delicate  task 
to  take  a  rabbit  from  such  a  trap  ;  for,  give  him 
a  crack  of  chance  and  away  he  bolts  to  freedom. 
Open  the  lid  carefully  when  there  is  a  possum 
inside,  and  you  will  find  the  old  fellow  curled 
up  with  a  sweet  smile  of  peace  on  his  face,  fast 
asleep.  Shake  the  trap,  and  he  rouses  yawn- 
ingly,  with  a  mildly  injured  air,  offended  at  your 
rudeness,  and  wanting  to  know  why  you  should 
wake  an  innocent  possum  from  so  safe  and  com- 
fortable a  bed.  He  blinks  at  you  inquiringly 
and  says :  "Please,  sir,  if  you  will  be  so  kind  as 
to  shut  the  door  and  go  away,  I  will  finish  my 
nap."  And  while  he  is  saying  it,  before  your 
very  eyes,  off  to  sleep  he  goes. 

Is  this  nervousness?  What,  then,  is  it— stu- 
pidity or  insolence? 

Physically  as  well  as  psychologically  the  pos- 
sums are  out  of  the  ordinary.  As  every  one 
knows,  they  are  marsupials ;  that  is,  they  have 
a  pouch  or  pocket  on  the  abdomen  in  which  they 
carry  the  young.  Into  this  pocket  the  young 
[24] 


are  transferred  as  soon  as  they  are  born,  and  were 
it  not  for  this  strange  half-way  house  along  the 
journey  of  their  development  they  would  perish. 

At  birth  a  possum  is  little  more  than  formed — 
the  least  mature  babe  among  all  of  our  mam- 
mals. It  is  only  half  an  inch  long,  blind,  deaf, 
naked,  and  so  weak  and  helpless  as  to  be  unable 
to  open  its  mouth  or  even  cry.  Such  babies  are 
rare.  The  smallest  young  mice  you  ever  saw 
are  as  large  as  possums  at  their  birth.  They 
weigh  only  about  four  grains,  the  largest  of 
them,  and  are  so  very  tiny  that  the  mother 
has  to  fasten  each  to  a  teat  and  force  the  milk 
down  each  wee  throat— for  they  cannot  even 
swallow. 

They  live  in  this  cradle  for  about  five  weeks, 
by  which  time  they  can  creep  out  and  climb  over 
their  mother.  They  are  then  about  the  size  of 
full-grown  mice,  and  the  dearest  of  wood  babies. 
They  have  sharp  pink  noses,  snapping  black  eyes, 
gray  fur,  and  the  longest,  barest  tails.  I  think 
that  the  most  interesting  picture  I  ever  saw  in 
the  woods  was  an  old  mother  possum  with  eleven 
little  ones  clinging  to  her.  She  was  standing  off 
a  dog  as  I  came  up,  and  every  one  of  the  eleven 
[25] 


was  peeking  out,  immensely  enjoying  this  first 
adventure.  The  quizzing  snouts  of  six  were 
poked  out  in  a  bunch  from  the  cradle-pouch, 
while  the  other  five  mites  were  upon  their 
mother's  back,  where  they  had  been  playing 
Jack-and-the-beanstalk  up  and  down  her  tail. 

Historically,  also,  the  possum  is  a  conundrum. 
He  has  not  a  single  relative  on  this  continent, 


"  She  was  standing  off  a  dog." 

except  those  on  exhibition  in  zoological  gardens. 
He  left  kith  and  kin  behind  in  Australia  when 
he  came  over  to  our  country.  How  he  got  here, 
and  when,  we  do  not  know.  Clouds  hang  heavy 
over  the  voyages  of  all  the  discoverers  of  Amer- 
[26] 


ica.  The  possum  was  one  of  the  first  to 
find  us,  and  when  did  he  land,  I  wonder? 
How  long  before  Columbus,  and  Leif,  son 
of  Eric? 

aSSd 

In  his  appetite  the  possum  is        •*$jA$$? 
110  way  peculiar,  except,  per- 
haps, that  he  takes  the  seasons' 
menus    entire.      Between    persimmon- 
times  he  eats  all  sorts  of  animal  food, 
and  is  a  much  better  hunter  than  we  usually 
give  him  credit  for.     Considering  his  slowness, 
too,    he    manages    to    plod    over   an    amazing 
amount  of  territory  in  the  course  of  his  evening 
rambles.     He  starts  out  at  dusk,  and  wanders 
around  all  night,  planning  his  hunt  so  as  to 
get  back  to  his  lair  by  dawn.     Sometimes  at 
daybreak  he  is  a  long  way  from  home.      Not 
being  able  to  see  well  in  the  light,  and  rather 
than  run  into  needless  danger,  he  then  crawls 
into  the  nearest  hole  or  under  the  first  rail-pile 
he   comes  to ;   or  else  he  climbs  a  tree,  and, 
wrapping  his  tail  about  a  limb,  settles 
himself  comfortably  in  a  forked  branch 
quite  out  of  sight,  and  sleeps  till  dark- 
ness comes  again. 

[27] 


On  these  expeditions  lie  picks  up  frogs,  fish, 
eggs,  birds,  mice,  corn,  and  in  winter  a  chicken 
here  and  there. 

In  the  edge  of  a  piece  of  woods  along  the 
Cohansey  there  used  to  stand  a  large  hen-coop 
surrounded  by  a  ten-foot  fence  of  wire  netting. 
One  winter  several  chickens  were  missing  here, 
and  though  rats  and  other  prowlers  about  the 
pen  were  caught,  still  the  chickens  continued  to 
disappear. 

One  morning  a  possum  was  seen  to  descend 
the  wire  fence  and  enter  the  coop  through  the 
small  square  door  used  by  the  fowls.  We  ran 
in  ;  but  there  was  no  possum  to  be  found.  We 
thought  we  had  searched  everywhere  until, 
finally,  one  of  us  lifted  the  lids  off  a  rusty  old 
stove  that  had  been  used  to  heat  the  coop  the 
winter  before,  and  there  was  the  possum,  with 
two  companions,  snug  and  warm,  in  a  nest  of 
feathers  on  the  grate. 

Here  were  the  remains  of  the  lost  chickens. 
These  sly  thieves  had  camped  in  this  stove  ever 
since  autumn,  crawling  in  and  out  through  the 
stovepipe  hole.  During  the  day  they  slept 
quietly ;  and  at  night,  when  the  chickens  were 
[28] 


at  roost,  the  old  rascals  would  slip  out,  grab  the 
nearest  one,  pull  it  into  the  stove,  and  feast. 

Is   there  anything  on  record  in  the  way  of 
audacity  better  than  that? 


[29] 


BIRDS'   WINTER   BEDS 


BIRDS'   WINTER    BEDS 

The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold. 

A  STORM  had  been  raging  from  the  north- 
east all  day.      Toward  evening  the  wind 
strengthened  to  a  gale,  and  the  fine,  icy  snow 
swirled  and  drifted  over  the  frozen  fields. 

I  lay  a  long  time  listening  to  the  wild  sym- 
phony of  the  winds,  thankful  for  the  roof  over 
my  head,  and  wondering  how  the  hungry,  home- 
less creatures  out  of  doors  would  pass  the  night. 
Where  do  the  birds  sleep  such  nights  as  this? 
Where  in  this  bitter  cold,  this  darkness  and 
storm,  will  they  make  their  beds?  The  lark 
that  broke  from  the  snow  at  my  feet  as  I  crossed 
the  pasture  this  afternoon— 
»  [33] 


What  comes  o'  thee? 

Whar  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  wing, 
An'  close  thy  e'e? 

The  storm  grew  fiercer ;  the  wind  roared 
through  the  big  pines  by  the  side  of  the  house 
and  swept  hoarsely  011  across  the  fields  5  the 
pines  shivered  and  groaned,  and  their  long 
limbs  scraped  over  the  shingles  above  me  as  if 
feeling  with  frozen  fingers  for  a  way  in •  the 
windows  rattled,  the  cracks  and  corners  of  the 
old  farm-house  shrieked,  and  a  long,  thin  line  of 
snow  sifted  in  from  beneath  the  window  across 
the  garret  floor.  I  fancied  these  sounds  of  the 
storm  were  the  voices  of  freezing  birds,  crying 
to  be  taken  in  from  the  cold.  Once  I  thought 
I  heard  a  thud  against  the  window,  a  sound 
heavier  than  the  rattle  of  the  snow.  Something 
seemed  to  be  beating  at  the  glass.  It  might  be 
a  bird.  I  got  out  of  bed  to  look ;  but  there 
was  only  the  ghostly  face  of  the  snow  pressed 
against  the  panes,  half-way  to  the  window's  top. 
I  imagined  that  I  heard  the  thud  again ;  but, 
while  listening,  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  that 
my  window  was  frozen  fast,  and  that  all  the 
birds  in  the  world  were  knocking  at  it,  trying 
to  get  in  out  of  the  night  and  storm. 
[34] 


The  fields  lay  pure  and  white  and  flooded  with 
sunshine  when  I  awoke.  Jumping  out  of  bed, 
I  ran  to  the  window,  and  saw  a  dark  object  on 
the  sill  outside.  I  raised  the  sash,  and  there, 
close  against  the  glass,  were  two  quails— frozen 
stiff  in  the  snow.  It  was  they  I  heard  the 
night  before  fluttering  at  the  window.  The 
ground  had  been  covered  deep  with  snow  for 
several  days,  and  at  last,  driven  by  hunger  and 
cold  from  the  fields,  they  saw  my  light,  and 
sought  shelter  from  the  storm  and  a  bed  for 
the  night  with  me. 

Four  others,  evidently  of  the  same  covey, 
spent  the  night  in  the  wagon-house,  and  in  the 
morning  helped  themselves  fearlessly  to  the 
chickens'  breakfast.  They  roosted  with  the 
chickens  several  nights,  but  took  to  the  fields 
again  as  soon  as  the  snow  began  to  melt. 

It  is  easy  to  account  for  our  winter  birds  dur- 
ing the  day.  Along  near  noon,  when  it  is  warm 
and  bright,  you  will  find  the  sparrows,  chicka- 
dees, and  goldfinches  searching  busily  among 
the  bushes  and  weeds  for  food,  and  the  crows 
and  jays  scouring  the  fields.  But  what  about 
them  during  the  dark'?  Where  do  they  pass 
the  long  winter  nights'? 

[35] 


Why,  they  have  nests,  you  say.  Yes,  they  had 
nests  in  the  summer,  and  then,  perhaps,  one  of 
the  parent  birds  may  be  said  to  have  slept  in  the 
nest  during  the  weeks  of  incubation  and  rearing 
of  the  young.  But  nests  are  cradles,  not  beds, 
and  are  never  used  by  even  the  young  birds  from 
the  day  they  leave  them.  Muskrats  build  houses, 
foxes  have  holes,  and  squirrels  sleep  in  true  nests  ; 
but  of  the  birds  it  can  be  said,  "they  have  not 
where  to  lay  their  heads."  They  sleep  upon 
their  feet  in  the  grass,  in  hollow  trees,  and  among 
the  branches  ;  but,  at  best,  such  a  bed  is  no  more 
than  a  roost.  A  large  part  of  the  year  this  roost 
is  new  every  night,  so  that  the  question  of  a 
sleeping-place  during  the  winter  is  most  serious. 

The  cheerful  little  goldfinches,  that  bend  the 
dried  ragweeds  and  grass-stalks  down  and  scatter 
their  chaff  over  the  snow,  sleep  in  the  thick 
cedars  and  pines.  These  warm,  close -limbed 
evergreens  I  have  found  to  be  the  lodging-houses 
of  many  of  the  smaller  winter  birds — the  fox- 
colored  sparrow,  snowbird,  crossbill,  and  some- 
times of  the  chickadee,  though  he  usually  tucks 
his  little  black  cap  under  his  wing  in  a  wood- 
pecker's hole. 

[36] 


nn 

Bk 


"  The  cheerful  little  gold- 
finches, that  bend  the  dried 
ragweeds." 


The  meadow-larks  always 
roost  upon  the  ground.  They 
creep  well  under  the  grass,  or,  if 
the  wind  is  high  and  it  snows,  they 
squat  close  to  the  ground  behind  a 
tuft  of  grass  or  thick  bush  and  sleep 
while  the  cold  white  flakes  fall  about 
them.  They  are  often  covered  before  the  morn- 
ing ;  and  when  housed  thus  from  the  wind  and 
hidden  from  prowling  enemies,  no  bird  could 
wish  for  a  cozier,  warmer,  safer  bed. 

But  what  a  lonely  bed  it  is  !     Nothing  seems 
[37] 


so  utterly  homeless  and  solitary  as  a  meadow- 
lark  after  the  winter  nightfall.  In  the  middle 
of  a  wide,  snow-covered  pasture  one  will  occa- 
sionally spring  from  under  your  feet,  scattering 
the  snow  that  covered  him,  and  go  whirring 
away  through  the  dusk,  lost  instantly  in  the 
darkness— a  single  little  life  in  the  wild,  bleak 
wilderness  of  winter  fields ! 

Again,  the  grass  is  often  a  dangerous  bed.  On 
the  day  before  the  great  March  blizzard  of  1888, 
the  larks  were  whistling  merrily  from  the  fences, 
with  just  a  touch  of  spring  in  their  call.  At 
noon  I  lifted  no  signs  of  storm,  but  by  four 
o'clock— an  hour  earlier  than  usual— the  larks 
had  disappeared.  They  rose  here  and  there 
from  the  grass  as  I  crossed  the  fields,  not  as  they 
do  when  feeding,  far  ahead  of  me,  but  close  to 
my  feet.  They  had  gone  to  bed.  By  early  even- 
ing the  snow  began  to  fall,  and  for  two  days 
continued  furiously. 

A  week  later,  when  the  deep  drifts  melted,  I 
found  several  larks  that  had  perished  from  cold 
or  starvation  or  had  smothered  under  the 
weight  of  snow. 

There  is  something  of  awe  in  the  thought  of  a 
[38] 


bird  nestling  close  beneath  a  snow-laden  bush  in 
a  broad  meadow,  or  clinging  fast  to  a  limb  in 
the  swaying  top  of  some  tall  tree,  rocked  in  its 
great  arms  through  the  night  by  a  winter  gale. 
All  trees,  even  the  pines  and  cedars,  are  fearfully 
exposed  sleeping-places,  and  death  from  cold  is 
not  infrequent  among  the  birds  that  take  beds 
in  them. 

The  pine  barrens,  and  especially  certain  pine 
clumps  along  Cohansey  Creek  and  at  the  head 
of  Cubby  Hollow,  used  to  be  famous  crow- roosts. 
Thousands  of  the  birds,  a  few  years  ago,  fre- 
quented these  pieces  of  wood  in  the  winter. 
About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  during  the 
severest  weather,  they  begin  to  fly  over  to  the 
roost  at  the  head  of  the  Hollow,  coming  in  from 
the  surrounding  fields,  some  of  them  from  miles 
away,  where  they  have  been  foraging  all  day 
for  food.  You  can  tell  the  character  of  the 
weather  by  the  manner  of  their  flight.  In  the 
fall  and  spring  they  went  over  cawing,  chasing 
each  other  and  performing  in  the  air  ;  they  were 
happy,  and  life  was  as  abundant  as  the  spring 
promise  or  the  autumn  fullness  everywhere.  But 
in  January  the  land  is  bare  and  hard,  and  life 
[39] 


correspondingly  lean  and  cheerless.  You  see  it 
in  their  heavy,  dispirited  flight ;  all  their  spring 
joyousness  is  gone  ;  they  pass  over  silent  and 
somber,  reluctant  to  leave  the  fields,  and  fearful 
of  the  night.  There  is  not  a  croak  as  they  settle 
among  the  pines— scores,  sometimes  hundreds  of 
them,  in  a  single  tree. 

Here,  in  the  swaying  tops,  amid  the  heavy 
roar  of  the  winds,  they  sleep.  You  need  have 
no  fear  of  waking  them  as  you  steal  through  the 
shadows  beneath  the  trees.  The  thick  mat  of 
needles  or  the  sifted  snow  muffles  your  footfalls  ; 
and  the  winds  still  the  breaking  branches  and 
snapping  twigs.  What  a  bed  in  a  winter  storm  ! 
The  sky  is  just  light  enough  for  you  to  distinguish 
the  dim  outlines  of  the  sleepers  as  they  rock  in 
the  waves  of  the  dark  green  that  rise  and  fall 
above  you ;  the  trees  moan,  the  branches  shiver 
and  creak,  and  high  above  all,  around  and  be- 
neath you,  filling  the  recesses  of  the  dark  wo  od 
rolls  the  volume  of  the  storm. 

But  the   crows   sleep  on,  however  high  the 

winds.     They  sit  close  to  the  branches,  that  the 

feathers   may   cover   their   clinging  feet;  they 

tuck  their  heads  beneath   their   wing-coverts, 

[40] 


thus  protecting  the  whole  body,  except  one 
side  of  the  head,  which  the  feathers  of  the  wing 
cannot  quite  shelter.  This  leaves  an  eye  ex- 
posed, and  this  eye,  like  the  heel  of  Achilles, 
proves  to  be  the  one  vulnerable  spot.  It  freezes 
in  very  severe  weather,  causing  a  slow,  painful 
death.  In  the  morning,  after  an  unusually  cold 
night,  you  can  find  dozens  of  crows  flapping 
piteously  about  in  the  trees  of  the  roost  and 
upon  the  ground,  with  frozen  eyes.  In  Janu- 
ary, 1895,  I  saw  very  many  of  them  along  the 
Hollow,  blind  in  one  eye  or  in  both  eyes,  dying 
of  pain  and  starvation.  It  was  pitiful  to  see 
their  sufferings.  The  snow  in  places  was 
sprinkled  with  their  broken  feathers,  and  with 
pine-needles  which  they  had  plucked  off  and 
tried  to  eat.  Nothing  could  be  done  for  the 
poor  things.  I  have  tried  time  and  again  to 
doctor  them  ;  but  they  were  sure  to  die  in  the 
end. 

Who  has  not  wondered,  as  he  has  seen  the 
red  rim  of  the  sun  sink  down  in  the  sea,  where 
the  little  brood  of  Mother  Carey's  chickens 
skimming  round  the  vessel  would  sleep  that 
night  ?  Or  who,  as  he  hears  the  honking  of  geese 

[41] 


overhead  in  the  darkness,  has  not  questioned  by 

what 

.  .  .  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 

Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 
On  the  chafed  ocean-side, 

they  will  find  rest? 

In  winter,  when  a  heavy  southeast  wind  is 
blowing,  the  tides  of  Delaware  Bay  are  high  and 
the  waters  very  rough.  Then  the  ducks  that 
feed  along  the  reedy  flats  of  the  bay  are  driven 
into  the  quieter  water  of  the  creeks,  and  at 
night  fly  into  the  marshes,  where  they  find  safe 
beds  in  the  "salt-holes." 

The  salt-holes  are  sheets  of  water  having  110 
outlet,  with  clean  perpendicular  sides  as  if  cut 
out  of  the  grassy  marsh,  varying  in  size  from  a 
few  feet  wide  to  an  acre  in  extent.  The  sedges 
grow  luxuriantly  around  their  margins,  making 
a  thick,  low  wall  in  winter,  against  which  the 
winds  blow  in  vain.  If  a  bird  must  sleep  in  the 
water,  such  a  hole  comes  as  near  to  being  a  per- 
fect cradle  as  anything  could  be,  short  of  the 
bottom  of  a  well. 

The  ducks  come  in  soon  after  dark.  You 
can  hear  the  whistle  of  their  wings  as  they  pass 
[42] 


just  above  your  head,  skimming  along  the 
marsh.  They  settle  in  a  hole,  swim  close  up  to  the 
windward  shore,  beneath  the  sedges,  and,  with 
their  heads  under  their  wings,  go  fast  asleep. 
And  as  they  sleep  the  ice  begins  to  form— first, 
along  their  side  of  the  hole,  where  the  water  is 
calmest ;  then,  extending  out  around  them,  it 
becomes  a  hard  sheet  across  the  surface. 

A  night  that  will  freeze  a  salt-hole  is  not  one 
in  which  there  is  likely  to  be  much  hunting 
done  by  man  or  beast.  But  I  have  been  on  the 
marshes  such  nights,  and  so  have  smaller  and 
more  justified  hunters.  It  is  not  a  difficult  feat 
to  surprise  the  sleeping  ducks.  The  ice  is  half 
an  inch  thick  when  you  come  up,  and  seals  the 
hole  completely,  save  immediately  about  the 
bodies  of  the  birds.  Their  first  impulse,  when 
taken  thus  at  close  range,  is  to  dive  ;  and  down 
they  go,  turning  in  their  tracks. 

Will  they  get  out?  One  may  chance  to 
strike  the  hole  which  his  warm  body  kept 
open,  as  he  rises  to  breathe  5  but  it  is  more 
likely  that  he  will  come  up  under  the  ice,  and 
drown.  I  have  occasionally  found  a  dead  duck 
beneath  the  ice  or  floating  in  the  water  of  a 
[4.3] 


salt-hole.  It  had  been  surprised,  no  doubt, 
while  sleeping,  and,  diving  in  fright,  was 
drowned  under  the  ice,  which  had  silently 
spread  like  a  strange,  dreadful  covering  over 
its  bed. 

Probably  the  life  of  no  other  of  our  winter 
birds  is  so  full  of  hardship  as  is  that  of  the 
quail,  Bob  White. 

In  the  early  summer  the  quails  are  hatched 
in  broods  of  from  ten  to  twenty,  and  live  as 
families  until  the  pairing  season  the  next  spring. 
The  chicks  keep  close  to  the  neighborhood  of 
the  home  nest,  feeding  and  roosting  together, 
under  the  guidance  of  the  parent  birds.  But 
this  happy  union  is  soon  broken  by  the  advent 
of  the  gunning  season.  It  is  seldom  that  a  bevy 
escapes  this  period  whole  and  uninjured.  In- 
deed, if  one  of  the  brood  is  left  to  welcome  the 
spring  it  is  little  less  than  a  miracle. 

I  have  often  heard  the  scattered,  frightened 
families  called  together  after  a  day  of  hard 
shooting ;  and  once,  in  the  old  pasture  to  the 
north  of  Cubby  Hollow,  I  saw  the  bevy  assemble. 

It  was  long  after  sunset,  but  the  snow  so  dif- 
fused the  light  that  I  could  see  pretty  well.  In 
[44] 


'•  There  she  stood  in  the 
snow  with  head  high, 
listening  anxiously." 


climbing  the  fence  into  the  pasture, 

I  had  started  a  rabbit,  and  was  creep- 

ing up  behind  a  low  cedar,  when  a  quail, 
very  near  me,  whistled  softly,  Whirl-ee!  The 
cedar  was  between  us.  Whirl-ee,  whirl-ee-gig ! 
she  whistled  again. 

It  was  the  sweetest  bird-note  I  ever  heard, 
being  so  low,  so  liquid,  so  mellow  that  I  almost 
doubted  if  Bob  White  could  make  it.  But  there 
she  stood  in  the  snow  with  head  high,  listening 
anxiously.  Again  she  whistled,  louder  this  time  j 
and  from  the  woods  below  came  a  faint  answer- 
ing call :  White !  The  answer  seemed  to  break 
a  spell;  and  on  three  sides  of  me  sounded 
other  calls.  At  this  the  little  signaler  repeated 
her  efforts,  and  each  time  the  answers  came 
louder  and  nearer.  Presently  something  dark 
hurried  by  me  over  the  snow  and  joined  the 
[45] 


quail  I  was  watching.  It  was  one  of  the  covey 
that  I  had  heard  call  from  the  woods. 

Again  and  again  the  signal  was  sent  forth 
until  a  third,  fourth,  and  finally  a  fifth  were 
grouped  about  the  leader.  There  was  just  an 
audible  twitter  of  welcome  and  gratitude  ex- 
changed as  each  new-comer  made  his  appearance. 
Once  more  the  whistle  sounded ;  but  this  time 
there  was  no  response  across  the  silent  field. 

The  quails  made  their  way  to  a  thick  cedar 
that  spread  out  over  the  ground,  and,  huddling 
together  in  a  close  bunch  under  this,  they  mur- 
mured something  soft  and  low  among  themselves 
and— dreamed. 

Some  of  the  family  were  evidently  missing, 
and  I  crept  away,  sorry  that  even  one  had  been 
taken  from  the  little  brood. 


And  —  dreamed." 


SOME   SNUG   WINTER   BEDS 


'**$$£' 


SOME   SNUG   WINTER   BEDS 

IT  was  a  cold,  desolate  January  day.  Scarcely 
a  sprig  of  green  showed  in  the  wide  land- 
scape, except  where  the  pines  stood  in  a  long 
blur  against  the  gray  sky.  There  was  not  a  sign 
that  anything  living  remained  in  the  snow-buried 
fields,  nor  in  the  empty  woods,  shivering  and 
looking  all  the  more  uncovered  and  cold  under 
their  mantle  of  snow,  until  a  solitary  crow 
flapped  heavily  over  toward  the  pines  in  search 
of  an  early  bed  for  the  night. 

The  bird  reminded  me  that  I,  too,  should  be 
turning  toward  the  pines ;    for  the  dull  gray 
afternoon  was  thickening  into  night,  and  my 
[49] 


bed  lay  beyond  the  woods,  a  long  tramp  through 
the  snow. 

As  the  black  creature  grew  small  in  the  dis- 
tance and  vanished  among  the  trees,  I  felt  a 
pang  of  pity  for  him.  I  knew  by  his  flight  that 
he  was  hungry  and  weary  and  cold.  Every 
labored  stroke  of  his  unsteady  wings  told  of  a 
long  struggle  with  the  winter  death.  He  was 
silent  j  and  his  muteness  spoke  the  foreboding 
and  dread  with  which  he  faced  another  bitter 
night  in  the  pines. 

The  snow  was  half-way  to  my  knees  ;  and  still 
another  storm  was  brewing.  All  day  the  leaden 
sky  had  been  closing  in,  weighed  down  by  the 
snow-filled  air.  That  hush  which  so  often  pre- 
cedes the  severest  winter  storms  brooded  every- 
where. The  winds  were  in  leash — no,  not  in 
leash  ;  for  had  my  ears  been  as  keen  as  those  of 
the  creatures  about  me,  I  might  even  now  have 
heard  them  baying  far  away  to  the  north.  It 
was  not  the  winds  that  were  still  j  it  was  the 
fields  and  forests  that  quailed  before  the  onset 
of  the  storm. 

I  skirted  Lupton's  Pond  and  saw  the  muskrat 
village,  a  collection  of  white  mounds  out  in  the 
[50] 


ice,  and  coming  on  to  Cubby  Hollow,  I  crossed  on 
the  ice,  ascended  the  hill,  and  keeping  in  the 
edge  of  the  swamp,  left  the  pines  a  distance  to 
the  left.  A  chickadee,  as  if  oppressed  by  the 
silence  and  loneliness  among  the  trees,  and  un- 
easy in  his  stout  little  heart  at  the  threatening 
storm,  flew  into  the  bushes  as  near  to  me  as  he 
could  get,  arid,  apparently  for  the  sake  of  com- 
panionship, followed  me  along  the  path,  cheep- 
ing plaintively. 

As  I  emerged  from  the  woods  into  a  corn- 
field and  turned  to  look  over  at  the  gloomy 
pines,  a  snowflake  fell  softly  upon  my  arm.  The 
storm  had  begun.  Now  the  half -starved  crows 
came  flocking  in  by  hundreds,  hurrying  to  roost 
before  the  darkness  should  overtake  them.  A 
biting  wind  was  rising ;  already  I  could  hear  it 
soughing  through  the  pines.  There  was  some- 
thing fascinating  in  the  oncoming  monster,  and 
backing  up  behind  a  corn-shock,  I  stopped  a 
little  to  watch  the  sweep  of  its  white  winds  be- 
tween me  and  the  dark,  sounding  pines. 

I  shivered  as  the  icy  flakes  fell  thicker  and 
faster.  How  the  wild,  unhoused  things  must 
suffer  to-night !  I  thought,  as  the  weary  pro- 
[51] 


I 


cession  of  crows  beat  on  toward  the  trees. 
Presently  there  was  a  small  stir  within  the 
corn-shock.  I  laid  my  ear  to  the  stalks  and 
listened.  Mice !  I  could  hear  them  moving 
around  in  there.  It  was  with  relief  that  I  felt 
that  here,  at  least,  was  a  little  people  whom 
the  cold  and  night  could  not  hurt. 

These  mice  were  as  warmly  sheltered  inside 
this  great  shock  as  I  should  be  in  my  furnace- 
warmed  home.  Their  tiny  nests  of  corn-silk, 
hidden  away,  perhaps,  within  the  stiff,  empty 
husks  at  the  shock's  very  center,  could  never 
be  wet  by  a  drop  of  the  most  driving  rain  nor 
reached  by  the  most  searching  frosts.  And  not 
a  mouse  of  them  feared  starvation.  A  plenty 
of  nubbins  had  been  left  from  the  husking,  and 
they  would  have  corn  for  the  shelling  far  into  the 
spring— if  the  fodder  and  their  homes  should  be 
left  to  them  so  long. 

I  floundered  on  toward  home.  In  the  gather- 
ing night,  amid  the  swirl  of  the  snow,  the 
shocks  seemed  like  spectral  tents  pitched  up 
and  down  some  ghostly  camp.  But  the  specters 
and  ghosts  were  all  with  me,  all  out  in  the 
whirling  storm.  The  mice  knew  nothing  of 

[53] 


wander  ing,  shivering  spirits  ;  they  nibbled  their 
corn  and  squeaked  in  snug  contentment ;  for 
only  dreams  of  the  winter  come  to  them  in 
there. 

These  shock -dwellers  were  the  common  house  - 
mice,  Mus  musculus.  But  they  are  not  the  only 
mice  that  have  warm  beds  in  winter.  In  fact, 
bed-making  is  a  specialty  among  the  mice. 

ZapuSj  the  jumping-mouse,  the  exquisite  little 
fellow  with  the  long  tail  and  kangaroo  legs,  has 
made  his  nest  of  leaves  and  grass  down  in  the 
ground,  where  he  lies  in  a  tiny  ball  just  out  of 
the  frosts  reach,  fast  asleep.  He  will  be  plowed 
out  of  bed  next  spring,  if  his  nest  is  in  a  field 
destined  for  corn  or  melons ;  for  Zapus  is  sure 
to  oversleep.  He  is  a  very  sound  sleeper.  The 
bluebirds,  robins,  and  song-sparrows  will  have 
been  back  for  weeks,  the  fields  will  be  turning 
green,  and  as  for  the  flowers,  there  will  be  a 
long  procession  of  them  started,  before  this 
pretty  sleepy -head  rubs  his  eyes,  uncurls  him- 
self, and  digs  his  way  out  to  see  the  new  spring 
morning. 

Does  this  winter-long  sleep  seem  to  him  only 
as  a  nap  overnight1? 

[54] 


Arvicola,  the  meadow -mouse,  that  duck -legged, 
stump-tailed,  pot-bellied  mouse  whose  paths 
you  see  everywhere  in  the  meadows  and  fields, 
stays  wide  awake  all  winter.  He  is  not  so  ten- 


The  meadow-mouse. 


der  as  Zapus.  The  cold  does  not  bother  him ; 
he  likes  it.  Up  he  comes  from  his  underground 
nest,— or  home,  rather,  for  it  is  more  than  a 
mere  sleeping-place,— and  runs  out  into  the 
snow  like  a  boy.  He  dives  and  plunges  about 
in  the  soft  white  drifts,  plowing  out  roads  that 
[55] 


crisscross  and  loop  and  lady's-chain  and  lead 
nowhere— simply  for  the  fun  of  it. 

Fairies  do  wonderful  things  and  live  in  im- 
possible castles ;  but  no  fairy  ever  had  a  palace 
in  fairy -land  more  impossible  than  this  unfairy- 
like  meadow-mouse  had  in  my  back  yard. 

One  February  day  I  broke  through  the  frozen 
crust  of  earth  in  the  garden  and  opened  a  large 
pit  in  which  forty  bushels  of  beets  were  buried. 
I  took  out  the  beets,  and,  when  near  the  bottom, 
I  came  upon  a  narrow  tunnel  running  around 
the  wall  of  the  pit  like  the  Whispering  Gallery 
around  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's.  It  completely 
circled  the  pit,  was  well  traveled,  and,  without 
doubt,  was  the  corridor  of  some  small  animal 
that  had/ the  great  beet-pit  for  a  winter  home. 

There  were  numerous  dark  galleries  branch- 
ing off  from  this  main  hallway,  piercing  out 
into  the  ground.  Into  one  of  these  I  put  my 
finger,  by  way  of  discovery,  thinking  I  might 
find  the  nest.  I  did  find  the  nest— and  more. 
The  instant  my  finger  entered  the  hole  a  sharp 
twinge  shot  up  my  arm,  and  I  snatched  away 
my  hand  with  a  large  meadow-mouse  fastened 
to  the  end  of  my  finger,  and  clinging  desperately 
[56] 


to  her,  lo  !   two  baby  mice,  little  bigger  than 
thimbles. 

In  this  mild  and  even  temperature,  four  feet 
below  the  frozen  surface  of  the  garden,  with 
never  a  care  as  to  weather  and  provisions,  dwelt 
this  single  family  of  meadow -mice.  What  a 
home  it  was  !  A  mansion,  indeed,  with  rooms 
innumerable,  and  a  main  hall  girdling  a  very 
mountain  of  juicy,  sugary  beets.  This  family 
could  not  complain  of  hard  times.  Besides  the 
beets,  the  mice  had  harvested  for  themselves  a 
number  of  cribs  of  clover-roots.  These  cribs,  or 
bins,  were  in  the  shape  of  little  pockets  in  the 
walls  of  the  great  gallery.  Each  contained  a 
cupful  of  the  thick,  meaty  tap-roots  of  clover, 
cut  into  lengths  of  about  half  an  inch.  If  the 
beets  should  fail  (  !  ),  or  cloy  upon  them,  they 
had  the  roots  to  fall  back  on. 

It  was  absolutely  dark  here,  and  worse  ;  there 
was  no  way  to  get  fresh  air  that  I  could  see.  Yet 
here  two  baby  mice  were  born  in  the  very  dead 
of  winter,  and  here  they  grew  as  strong  and  warm 
and  happy  as  they  would  have  grown  had  the 
season  showered  rose-petals  instead  of  snow- 
flakes  over  the  garden  above. 
[57] 


Hesperomys  is  the  rather  woodsy  name  of  the 
white-footed  or  deer-mouse,  a  shy,  timid  little 
creature  dwelling  in  every  wood,  who,  notwith- 
standing his  abundance,  is  an  utter  stranger  to 
most  of  us.  We  are  more  familiar  with  his  tracks, 
however,  than  with  even  those  of  the  squirrel 
and  rabbit.  His  is  that  tiny  double  trail  gal- 
loped across  the  snowy  paths  in  the  woods.  We 
see  them  sprinkled  over  the  snow  everywhere  ; 
but  when  have  we  seen  the  feet  that  left  them  ? 
Here  goes  a  line  of  the  wee  prints  from  a  hole 
in  the  snow  near  a  stump  over  to  the  butt  of 
a  large  pine.  Whitefoot  has  gone  for  provender 
to  one  of  his  storehouses  among  the  roots  of  the 
pine;  or l maybe  a  neighbor  lives  here,  and  he 
has  left  his  nest  of  bird-feathers  in  the  stump 
to  make  a  friendly  call  after  the  storm. 

A  bed  of  downy  feathers  at  the  heart  of  a 
punky  old  stump  beneath  the  snow  would  seem 
as  much  of  a  snuggery  as  ever  a  mouse  could 
build  5  but  it  is  not.  Instead  of  a  dark,  warm 
chamber  within  a  hollow  stump,  Whitefoot  some- 
times goes  to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  climbs 
a  leafless  tree  to  an  abandoned  bird's  nest,  and 
fits  this  up  for  his  winter  home.  Down  by  Cubby 
[58] 


Hollow  I  found  a  wood-thrush's  uest  in  a  slender 
swamp -maple,  about  fifteen  feet  from  the  ground. 
The  young  birds  left  it  late  in  June;  and  when 
Whitefoot  moved  in  I  do  not  know.  But  along 
in  the  winter  I  noticed  that  the  nest  looked  sus- 
piciously round  and  full,  as  if  it  were  roofed 
over.  Perhaps  the  falling  leaves  had  lodged  in 
it,  though  this  was  hardly  likely.  So  I  went  up 
to  the  sapling  and  tapped.  My  suspicions  were 
correct.  After  some  thumps,  a  sleepy,  fright- 
ened face  appeared  through  the  side  of  the  nest, 
and  looked  cautiously  down  at  me.  No  one 
could  mistake  that  pointed  nose,  those  big  ears, 
and  the  round  pop-eyes  so  nearly  dropping  out 
with  blinking.  It  was  Whitefoot.  I  had  dis- 
turbed his  dreams,  and  he  had  hardly  got  his 
wits  together  yet,  for  he  had  never  been  awak- 
ened thus  before.  And  what  could  wake  him? 
The  black-snakes  are  asleep,  and  there  is  not  a 
coon  or  cat  living  that  could  climb  this  spindling 
maple.  Free  from  these  foes,  Whitefoot  has 
only  the  owls  to  fear,  and  I  doubt  if  even  the 
little  screech-owl  could  flip  through  these  inter- 
laced branches  and  catch  the  nimble-footed  ten- 
ant of  the  nest. 

[59] 


It  was  Whitefoot." 


In  spite  of  the  exposure  this  must  be  a  warm 
bed.  The  walls  are  thick  and  well  plastered  with 
mud,  and  are  packed  inside  with  fine,  shredded 
bark  which  the  mouse  himself  has  pulled  from 
the  dead  chestnut  limbs,  or,  more  likely,  has 
taken  from  a  deserted  crow's  nest.  The  whole 
is  thatched  with  a  roof  of  shredded  bark,  so 
neatly  laid  that  it  sheds  water  perfectly.  The 
entrance  is  on  the  side,  just  over  the  edge  of 
the  original  structure,  but  so  shielded  by  the 
extending  roof  that  the  rain  and  snow  never  beat 
in.  The  thrushes  did  their  work  well ;  the  nest 
is  securely  mortised  into  the  forking  branches  j 
and  Whitefoot  can  sleep  without  a  tremor 
through  the  wildest  winter  gale.  Whenever 
the  snow  falls  lightly  a  high  white  tower  rises 
over  the  nest ;  and  then  the  little  haycock, 
lodged  in  the  slender  limbs  so  far  above  our 
heads,  is  a  very  castle  indeed. 

High  over  the  nest  of  the  white -footed  mouse, 
in  the  stiffened  top  of  a  tall  red  oak  that  stands 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  swings  another  winter 
bed.  It  is  the  bulky  oak-leaf  hammock  of  the 
gray  squirrel. 

A  hammock  for  a  winter  bed  ?     Is  there  any- 

[61] 


thing  snug  and  warm  about  a  hammock?  Not 
much,  true  enough.  From  the  outside  the  gray 
squirrel's  leaf  bed  looks  like  the  coldest,  dead- 
liest place  one  could  find  in  which  to  pass  the 
winter.  The  leaves  are  loose  and  rattle  in  the 
wind  like  the  clapboards  of  a  tumble-down 
house.  The  limb  threatens  every  moment  to 
toss  the  clumsy  nest  out  upon  the  storm.  But 
the  moorings  hold,  and  if  we  could  curl  up  with 
the  sleeper  in  that  swaying  bed,  we  should  rock 
and  dream,  and  never  feel  a  shiver  through  the 
homespun  blankets  of  chestnut  bark  that  wrap 
us  round  inside  the  flapping  leaves. 

Be  it  never  so  cozy,  a  nest  like  this  is  far 
from  a  burrow— the  bed  of  a  fat,  thick-headed 
dolt  who  sleeps  away  the  winter.  A  glance  into 
the  stark,  frozen  top  of  the  oak  sends  over  us  a 
chill  of  fright  and  admiration  for  the  dweller 
up  there.  He  cannot  be  an  ease-lover  j  neither 
can  he  know  the  meaning  of  fear.  We  should 
as  soon  think  of  a  sailor's  being  afraid  of  the 
shrieking  in  the  rigging  overhead,  as  of  this 
bold  squirrel  in  the  tree-tops  dreading  any 
danger  that  the  winter  winds  might  bring. 

There  are  winters  when  the  gray  squirrel 
[62] 


'•  From  his  leafless  height  he  looks  down  into  the  Hollow." 

stays  in  the  hollow  of  some  old  tree.  A  secure 
and  sensible  harbor,  this,  in  which  to  weather 
the  heavy  storms,  and  I  wonder  that  a  nest  is 
ever  anchored  outside  in  the  tree-tops.  The 
woodsmen  and  other  wiseacres  say  that  the 
squirrels  never  build  the  tree-top  nests  except 
in  anticipation  of  a  mild  winter.  But  weather 
wisdom,  when  the  gray  squirrel  is  the  source,  is 
as  little  wise  as  that  which  comes  from  Wash- 
ington or  the  almanac.  I  have  found  the  nests 
in  the  tree -tops  in  the  coldest,  fiercest  winters. 
It  is  not  in  anticipation  of  fine  weather,  but 
[63] 


a  wild  delight  in  the  free,  wild  winter,  that 
leads  the  gray  squirrel  to  swing  his  hammock 
from  the  highest  limb  of  the  tallest  oak  that 
will  hold  it.  He  dares  and  defies  the  winds,  and 
claims  their  freedom  for  his  own.  From  his 
leafless  height  yonder  he  looks  down  into  the 
Hollow  upon  the  tops  of  the  swamp  trees  where 
his  dizzy  roads  run  along  the  angled  branches, 
and  over  the  swamp  to  the  dark  pines,  and  over 
the  pines,  on,  on  across  the  miles  of  white  fields 
which  sweep  away  and  away  till  they  freeze 
with  the  frozen  sky  behind  the  snow-clouds  that 
drift  and  pile.  In  his  aery  he  knows  the  snarl 
and  bite  of  the  blizzard ;  he  feels  the  swell  of 
the  heaving  waves  that  drive  thick  with  snow 
out  of  the  cold  white  north.  Anchored  far  out 
in  the  tossing  arms  of  the  strong  oak,  his  leaf  nest 
rocks  in  the  storm  like  a  yawl  in  a  heaving  sea. 
But  he  loves  the  tumult  and  the  terror.  A 
night  never  fell  upon  the  woods  that  awed  him  ; 
cold  never  crept  into  the  trees  that  could  chill 
his  blood  ;  and  the  hoarse,  mad  winds  that  swirl 
and  hiss  about  his  pitching  bed  never  shook  a 
nerve  in  his  round,  beautiful  body.  How  he 
must  sleep  !  And  what  a  constitution  he  has  ! 
[64] 


A   BIKD   OF  THE    DARK 


A   BIED   OF   THE   DARK 

THE  world  is  never  more  than  half  asleep. 
Night  dawns  and  there  is  almost  as  wide  a 
waking  as  with  the  dawn  of  day.  We  live  in 
the  glare  till  it  leaves  us  blind  to  the  forms  that 
move  through,  the  dark  ;  we  listen  to  the  roar 
of  the  day  till  we  can  no  longer  hear  the  stir 
that  begins  with  the  night.  But  here  in  the 
darkness  is  life  and  movement, — wing-beats,  foot- 
falls, cries,  and  calls,— all  the  wakefulness,  strug- 
gle, and  tragedy  of  the  day. 

Whatever  the  dusk  touches  it  quickens. 
Things  of  bare  existence  by  day  have  life  at 
night.  The  very  rocks  that  are  dead  and  inani- 
mate in  the  light  get  breath  and  being  in  the 
dark.  What  was  mere  substance  now  becomes 
[67] 


shadow,  and  shadow  spirit,  till  all  the  day's  dead 
live  and  move.  The  roads,  fences,  trees,  and 
buildings  become  new  creatures ;  landmarks, 
distances,  and  places  change  ;  new  odors  are  on 
the  winds ;  strange  lights  appear ;  soft  footsteps 
pass  and  repass  us  $  and  hidden  voices  whisper 
everywhere.  The  brightest  day  is  not  more 
awake  ;  at  high  noon  we  are  not  more  alert. 

One  of  the  commonest  of  these  night  sounds 
is  the  cry  of  the  whippoorwill.  From  the  middle 
of  April  to  the  end  of  September  it  rings  along 

the  edge  of  the  clearing ;  but  how  seldom  we 

i 

have  seen  the  singer  !  To  most  of  us  it  is  only 
a  disembodied  voice.  Night  has  put  her  spell 
upon  the  whippoorwills  and  changed  them  from 
birds  into  wandering  shadows  and  voices.  There 
is  something  haunting  in  their  call,  a  suggestion 
of  fear,  as  though  the  birds  were  in  flight,  pur- 
sued by  a  shape  in  the  gloom.  It  is  the  voice  of 
the  lost— the  voice  of  the  night  trying  to  find 
its  way  back  to  the  day.  There  is  snap  enough 
in  the  call  if  you  happen  to  be  near  the  bird. 
Usually  the  sound  comes  to  us  out  of  the  dark- 
ness and  distance— the  loneliest,  ghostliest  cry  of 
all  the  night. 

[68] 


It  is  little  wonder  that  so  many  legends  and 
omens  follow  the  whippoorwill.  How  could  our 
imaginations,  with  a  bent  for  superstition,  fail 
to  work  upon  a  creature  so  often  heard,  so  rarely 
seen,  of  habits  so  dark  and  uncanny  ? 

One  cannot  grow  accustomed  to  the  night.  The 
eager,  jostling,  open-faced  day  has  always  been 
familiar  ;  but  with  the  night,  though  she  comes 
as  often  as  the  day,  no  number  of  returns  can 
make  us  acquainted.  Whatever  is  peculiarly 
her  own  shares  her  mystery.  Who  can  get  used 
to  the  bats  flitting  and  squeaking  about  him  in 
the  dusk  ?  Or  who  can  keep  his  flesh  from  creep- 
ing when  an  owl  bobs  over  him  in  the  silence 
against  a  full  moon?  Or  who,  in  the  depths  of  a 
pine  barren,  can  listen  to  a  circle  of  whippoor- 
wills  around  him,  and  not  stay  his  steps  as  one 
lost  in  the  land  of  homeless,  wailing  spirits'? 
The  continual  shifting  of  the  voices,  the  mock- 
ing echoes,  and  the  hiding  darkness  combine  in 
an  effect  altogether  gruesome  and  unearthly. 

One  may  hear  the  whippoorwill  every  sum- 
mer of  his  life,  but  never  see  the  bird.  It  is  shy 
and  wary,  and,  with  the  help  of  the  darkness, 
manages  to  keep  strangely  out  of  sight.  Though 
[69] 


it  is  not  unusual  to  stumble  upon  one  asleep  by 
day,  it  is  a  rare  experience  to  surprise  one  feed- 
ing or  singing  at  night. 

One  evening  I  was  standing  by  a  pump  in  an 
open  yard,  listening  to  the  whippoorwills  as 
they  came  out  to  the  edge  of  the  woods  and 
called  along  the  fields.  The  swamp  ran  up  so 
close  on  this  side  of  the  house  that  faint  puffs 
of  magnolia  and  wild  grape  could  be  strained 
pure  from  the  mingling  odors  in  the  sweet  night 
air.  The  whippoorwills  were  so  near  that  the 
introductory  chuck  and  many  of  the  finer,  flute  - 
like  trills  of  their  song,  which  are  never  heard  at 
a  distance,  were  clear  and  distinct.  Presently 
one  call  sounded  out  above  the  others,  and  in- 
stantly rang  again,  just  behind  a  row  of  currant- 
bushes  not  ten  feet  away. 

I  strained  my  eyes  for  a  glimpse  of  the  creature, 
when  swift  wings  fanned  my  face,  and  a  dark, 
fluffy  thing,  as  soft  and  noiseless  as  a  shadow, 
dropped  at  my  feet,  and  exploded  with  a  triple 
cry  of  Whip-poor-will !  that  startled  me.  It  was 
a  rapid,  crackling,  vigorous  call  that  split  through 
the  night  as  a  streak  of  lightning  through  a 
thunder-cloud.  The  farmers  about  here  interpret 
[70] 


the  notes  to  say,  Grack-the-whip  !  and  certainly, 
near  by,  this  fits  better  than  Whip-poor-will ! 

The  bird  was  flitting  about  the  small  plat- 
form upon  which  I  stood.     I  remained  as  stiff 


"  It  caught  at  the 
insects  in  the  air." 


as  the  pump,  for  which,  evidently,  it  had  mis- 
taken me.  It  was  not  still  a  moment,  but 
tossed  back  and  forth  on  wings  that  were  abso- 
lutely silent,  and  caught  at  the  insects  in  the  air 
and  uttered  its  piercing  cry.  It  leaped  rather 
than  flew,  sometimes  calling  on  the  wing,  and 
always  upon  touching  the  ground. 

This  is  as  good  a  view  of  the  bird  as  I  ever 
got  at  night.     The  darkness  was  too  thick  to 
[71] 


see  what  the  food  was  it  caught,  or  how  it 
caught  it.  I  could  not  make  out  a  pose  or  a 
motion  more  than  the  general  movements  about 
the  pump.  The  one  other  time  that  I  have 
had  a  good  look  at  the  bird,  when  not  asleep, 
showed  him  at  play. 

It  was  an  early  August  morning,  between  two 
and  three  o'clock.  The  only  doctor  in  the  vil- 
lage had  been  out  all  night  at  a  little  town 
about  five  miles  away.  He  was  wanted  at  once, 
and  I  volunteered  to  get  him. 

Five  miles  is  pure  fun  to  a  boy  who  has  run 
barefoot /every  one  of  his  fifteen  summers  ;  so  I 
rolled  up  my  trousers,  tightened  my  belt,  and 
bent  away  for  Shiloh  at  an  easy  dog-trot  that, 
even  yet,  I  believe  I  could  keep  up  for  half  a 
day. 

There  was  not  a  glimmer  in  the  east  when  I 
started.  I  had  covered  three  miles,  and  was 
entering  a  long  stretch  of  sprout-land  when  the 
dawn  began.  The  road  was  dusty,  and  the 
dew-laid  powder  puffed  beneath  the  soft,  swift 
pats  of  my  feet.  Things  began  to  stand  out 
with  some  distinctness  now  as  the  pale  light 
brightened.  No  wagons  had  been  along,  and 
[72] 


every  mark  of  the  night  was  plain.  Here  and 
there  were  broad,  ragged-edged  bands  across  the 
road— the  trails  of  the  wandering  box-turtles. 
I  saw  the  smooth,  waving  channel  left  by  a  snake 
that  had  just  gone  across.  Here  and  there  were 
bunches  of  rabbit  tracks,  and  every  little  while 
appeared  large  spots  in  the  road,  where  some 
bird  had  been  dusting  itself. 

Suddenly  I  made  a  sharp  turn,  and  almost  ran 
over  a  whippoorwill  concealed  in  a  very  cloud 
of  dust  which  she  was  flirting  up  with  her  wings. 
This  explained  the  spots  back  along  the  road. 
The  bird  flew  up  and  settled  a  few  yards  ahead 
of  me,  and  took  another  hasty  dip.  This  she 
kept  up  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 

The  road  was  alive  with  whippoorwills.  It 
was  their  bathing-hour,  and  playtime,  too.  The 
serious  business  of  the  night  was  done  ;  they  had 
hunted  through  the  first  hours,  and  now  it  was 
time  to  be  social.  The  light  was  coming  rap- 
idly, and  so  was  bedtime ;  but  they  called  and 
capered  about  me,  playing  away  the  narrowing 
night  to  the  very  edge  of  day. 

On  my  return,  an  hour  later,  the  sun  was 
looking  over  the  tops  of  the  "cut-offs,"  but  he 
[73] 


did  not  see  a  whippoorwill. 
They  were  all  roosting  length- 
wise upon  the  logs  and  stumps 
back  among  the  bushes. 

These  unnatural,  unbirdlike 
habits  of  the  whippoorwill  are 
matched  by  the  appearance  of 
the  bird.  The  first  time  one 
sees  a  whippoorwill  he  ques- 
tions whether  its  shape  and 
color  are  the  result  of  its  noc- 
turnal life  or  whether  it  took 
to  the  night  to  hide  its  un- 
beautiful  self  from  the  gaze  of 
the  day. 

It  has  ridiculously  short 
legs,  a  mere  point  of  a  bill, 
and  a  bristled,  head-dividing 
gap  tUat  would  shame  a  frog. 
Looked  at  in  the  daylight,  its 
color,  too,  is  a  meaningless 


mixture,  as  unreal  and  half  done  as  the  rest  of 
the  creature.  But  we  should  not  be  so  hasty  in 
our  judgment.  There  is  design  in  all  things  in 
nature  ;  utility  is  the  first  law  of  creation :  and 
the  discovery  of  plan  and  purpose  is  the  highest 
appreciation  of  beauty. 

The  whippoorwill's  dress  must  be  criticized 
from  the  view-point  of  its  usefulness  to  the  bird  j 
then  it  becomes  one  of  the  most  exquisitely 
artistic  garments  worn.  Compare  it  with  that 
of  any  other  bird;  and  your  wonder  at  it  grows. 
Another  such  blending  of  light  and  shadow  can- 
not be  found.  The  night  herself  seems  to  have 
woven  this  robe  out  of  warp  from  the  strands  of 
early  dawn  and  of  woof  spun  from  the  twilight. 

The  whippoorwill  cannot  change  the  color  of 
its  dress  with  the  passing  clouds,  nor  match  it 
with  the  light  green  of  unfolding  leaves  and  the 
deep  bronze  of  old  tree-trunks,  as  the  chameleon 
can.  But  the  bird  has  no  need  of  such  control. 
It  is  always  in  harmony  with  its  surroundings. 
In  the  falling  twilight  it  seems  a  shadow  among 
the  shadows  ;  in  the  breaking  dawn  it  melts  into 
the  gray  half-light,  a  phantom  ;  at  midnight  it  is 
only  an  echo  in  the  dark  ;  and  at  noontime  you 
[75] 


would  pass  the  creature  for  a  mossy  knot,  as  it 
squats  close  to  a  limb  or  rail,  sitting  length  wise, 
unlike  any  bird  of  the  light. 

We  need  not  expect  a  bird  of  such  irregular 
habits  as  the  whippoorwill  to  have  the  normal 
instincts  of  birds,  even  with  regard  to  its  off- 
spring. A  bird  given  to  roaming  about  at  night, 
the  companion  of  toads  and  bats  and  spooks,  is 
not  one  that  can  be  trusted  to  bring  up  young. 
You  cannot  count  much  on  the  domesticity  of  a 
bird  that  flits  around  with  the  shadows  and  fills 
the  night  with  doleful,  spellbinding  cries. 

The  ne^t  of  the  whippoorwill  is  the  bare 
ground,  together  with  whatever  leaves,  pebbles, 
or  bits  of  wood  happen  to  be  under  the  eggs  when 
they  are  laid.  I  found  a  nest  once  by  the  side 
of  a  log  in  the  woods,  and  by  rarest  good  fortune 
missed  putting  my  foot  upon  the  eggs.  Here 
there  was  no  attempt  at  nest-building,  not  even 
a  depression  in  the  earth.  There  were  two  of 
the  eggs, — the  usual  number, — long  and  creamy 
white,  with  mingled  markings  of  lavender  and 
reddish  brown.  Here,  upon  the  log,  one  of  the 
birds  dozed  away  the  day,  while  the  mate  on 
the  nest  brooded  and  slept  till  the  gloaming. 
[76] 


The  effect  of  this  erratic  life  in  the  forest 
glooms  and  under  the  cover  of  night  has  been 
to  make  the  whippoorwill  careless  of  her  home 
and  negligent  of  her  young.  She  has  become  a 
creature  of  omen,  weird  and  wakeful,  lingering 
behind  the  time  of  superstition  to  keep  myths 
moving  in  our  scanty  groves  and  mystery  still 
stirring  through  the  dark  rooms  of  the  night. 


"  Unlike  any  bird 
of  the  light." 


[77] 


THE   PINE-TREE   SWIFT 


THE   PINE-TKEE   SWIFT 

IN  any  large  museum  you  may  see  the  fossil 
skeletons,  or  the  casts  of  the  skeletons,  of 
those  mammoth  saurians  of  the  Mesozoic  Age. 
But  you  can  go  into  the  pine  barrens  any  bright 
summer  day  and  capture  for  yourself  a  real  live 
saurian.  The  gloom  of  the  pines  is  the  lingering 
twilight  of  that  far-off  time,  and  the  pine-tree 
lizard,  or  swift,  is  the  lineal  descendant  of  those 
reptile  monsters  who  ruled  the  seas  and  the  dry 
land  before  man  was. 

Throughout  southern  New  Jersey  the  pine- 
tree  swifts  abound.     The  worm-fences,  rail-piles, 
bridges,  stone-heaps,  and,  above  all,  the   pine- 
trees  are  alive  with  them.     They  are  the  true 
[81] 


children  of  the  pines,  looking  so  like  a  very 
part  of  the  trees  that  it  seems  they  must  have 
been  made  by  snipping  off  the  pitch-pines'  scaly 
twigs  and  giving  legs  to  them.  They  are  the 
aborigines,  the  primitive  people  of  the  barrens  ; 
and  it  is  to  the  lean,  sandy  barrens  you  must 
go  if  you  would  see  the  swifts  at  home. 

In  these  wide,  silent  wastes,  where  there  are 
miles  of  scrub-pine  without  a  clearing,  where 
the  blue,  hazy  air  is  laden  with  the  odor  of  resin, 
where  the  soft  glooms  are  mingled  with  softer, 
shyer  lights,  the  swifts  seem  what  they  actually 
are— creatures  of  another,  earlier  world.  When 
one  darts  over  your  foot  and  scurries  up  a  tree 
to  watch  you,  it  is  easy  to  imagine  other  ante- 
diluvian shapes  moving  in  the  deeper  shadows 
beyond.  How  they  rustle  the  leaves  and  scratch 
the  rough  pine  bark  !  They  hurry  from  under 
your  feet  and  peek  around  the  tree-trunks  into 
your  face,  their  nails  and  scales  scraping,  while 
they  themselves  remain  almost  invisible  on  the 
deep  browns  of  the  pines ;  and  if  you  are  in- 
clined to  be  at  all  nervous,  you  will  start  and 
shiver. 

The  uncanny  name  "lizard  "  is  partly  account- 
[82] 


able  for  our  unpleasant  feelings  toward 
this  really  intelligent  and  interesting  little 
beast.  If  lie  were  more  widely  known  as  " swift," 
Sceloporus  would  be  less  detested.  The  z  in  "  liz- 
ard "  adds  a  creepy,  crawly,  sinister  something 
to  the  name  which  even  the  wretched  word 
"snake"  does  not  suggest.  "Swift,"  the  com- 
mon name  in  some  localities,  is  certainly  more 
pleasing,  and,  at  the  same  time,  quite  accurately 
descriptive. 

There  is  nothing  deadly  nor  vicious,  nor  yet 
unlovely,  about  the  swift,  unless  some  may  hate 
his  reptile  form  and  his  scales.  But  he  is 
strangely  dreaded.  The  mere  mention  of  him 
is  enough  to  stampede  a  Sunday-school  picnic. 
I  know  good  people  who  kill  every  swift  they 
meet,  under  the  queer  religious  delusion  that 
they  are  lopping  off  a  limb  of  Satan.  "All  rep- 
tiles are  cursed,"  one  such  zealot  declared  to 
[83] 


"They  peek 
around  the 
tree-trunks." 


me,  "and  man  is  to  bruise  their  heads."  The 
good  book  of  nature  was  not  much  read,  evi- 
dently, by  this  student  of  the  other  Good 
Book. 

The  swift  is  absolutely  harmless.  He  is  with- 
out fang,  sting,  or  evil  charm.  He  is  not  ex- 
actly orthodox,  for  he  has  a  third  eye  in  the  top 
of  his  head,  the  scientists  tell  us  ;  but  that  eye  is 
entirely  hidden.  It  cannot  bind  nor  leer,  like 
Medusa.  Otherwise  the  swift  is  a  perfectly 
normal  little  creature,  about  six  inches  long 
from  tip  to  tip,  quick  of  foot,  scaly,  friendly, 
wonderfully  colored  in  undulating  browns  and 
blues,  and  looking,  on  the  whole,  like  a  pretty 
little  Noah's-ark  alligator. 

On  the  south  side  of  the  clump  of  pines  beyond 
Cubby  Hollow  is  a  pile  of  decaying  rails  where 
I  have  watched  the  swifts,  and  they  me,  for  so 
many  seasons  that  I  fancy  they  know  me. 
Dewberry -vines  and  Virginia  creeper  clamber 
over  the  pile,  and  at  one  end,  flaming  all 
through  July,  burns  a  splendid  bush  of  butter- 
fly-weed. The  orange-red  blossoms  shine  like 
a  beacon  against  the  dark  of  the  pines,  and  lure 
a  constant  stream  of  insect  visitors,  who  make 
[84] 


living  for  the  swifts  of  this  particular  place  rich 
and  easy  while  the  attraction  lasts. 

Any  hot  day  I  can  find  several  swifts  here, 
and  they  are  so  tame  that  I  can  tickle  them  all 
off  to  sleep  without  the  slightest  trouble.  They 
will  look  up  quickly  as  I  approach,  fearless  but 
alert,  with  head  tilted  and  eyes  snapping ;  but 
not  one  stirs.  With  a  long  spear  of  Indian 
grass  I  reach  out  gently  and  stroke  the  nearest 
one.  Shut  go  his  eyes ;  down  drops  his  head ; 
he  sleeps— at  least,  he  pretends  to.  This  is  my 
peace  greeting.  Now  I  may  sit  down,  and  life 
upon  the  rail -pile  will  go  normally  on. 

Upon  the  end  of  a  rail,  so  close  to  a  cluster  of 
the  butterfly-weed  blossoms  that  he  can  pick  the 
honey-gatherers  from  it,— as  you  would  pick 
olives  from  a  dish  on  the  table,— lies  a  big  male 
swift  without  a  tail.  He  lost  that  member  in 
an  encounter  with  me  several  weeks  ago.  A 
new  one  has  started,  but  it  is  a  mere  bud  yet. 
I  know  his  sex  by  the  brilliant  blue  stripe  down 
each  side,  which  is  a  favor  not  granted  the  fe- 
males. The  sun  is  high  and  hot.  "  Fearfully 
hot,"  I  say  under  my  wide  straw  hat.  "Delight- 
fully warm,"  says  the  lizard,  sprawling  over 
[85] 


the  rail,  his  legs  hanging,  eyes  half  shut,  every 
possible  scale  exposed  to  the  blistering  rays,  and 
his  bud  of  a  tail  twitching  with  the  small  spasms 
of  exquisite  comfort  that  shoot  to  the  very  ends 
of  his  being. 

The  little  Caliban !  How  he  loves  the  sun  ! 
It  cannot  shine  too  hot  nor  too  long  upon  him. 
He  stiffens  and  has  aches  when  it  is  cold,  so  he 
is  a  late  riser,  and  appears  not  at  all  on  dark, 
drizzly  days. 

His  nose  is  resting  upon  the  rail  like  a  drowsy 
scholar's  yupon  the  desk ;  but  he  is  not  asleep : 
he  sees  every  wasp  and  yellow-jacket  that  lights 
upon  the  luring  flowers.  He  has  learned  some 
things  about  the  wasp  tribe  ;  and  if  any  of  them 
want  honey  from  his  butterfly-weed,  they  may 
have  it.  These  come  and  go  with  the  butterflies 
and  hard-backed  bugs,  no  notice  being  taken. 
But  I  hear  the  booming  of  a  bluebottle-fly. 
Sceloporus  hears  him,  too,  and  gathers  his  legs 
under  him,  alert.  The  fly  has  settled  upon  one 
of  the  flower-clusters.  He  fumbles  among  the 
blossoms,  and  pretty  soon  blunders  upon  those 
watched  by  the  swift.  Fatal  blunder !  There 
is  a  quick  scratching  on  the  rail,  a  flash  of  brown 
[86] 


across  the  orange  flowers,  and  the  next  thing  I 
see  is  the  swift,  back  in  his  place,  throwing  his 
head  about  in  the  air,  licking  down  the  stupid 
bluebottle-fly. 

A  spider  crawls  over  the  rail  behind  him. 
He  turns  and  snaps  it  up.  A  fly  buzzes  about 
his  head,  but  he  will  not  jump  with  all  four  feet, 
and  so  loses  it.  A  humming-bird  is  fanning  the 
butterfly-weed,  and  he  looks  on  with  interest  not 
unmixed  with  fear.  Now  the  bugs,  butterflies, 
hornets,  and  wasps  make  up  the  motley  crowd 
of  visitants  to  his  garden,  and  Sceloporus  stretches 
out  in  the  warmth  again.  He  is  hardly  asleep 
when  a  bird's  shadow  passes  across  the  rails. 
The  sharp  scratch  of  scales  and  claws  is  heard  at 
half  a  dozen  places  on  the  pile  at  once,  and  every 
swift  has  ducked  around  his  rail  out  of  sight. 

An  enemy !  The  shadow  sweeps  on  across 
the  melon-field,  and  above  in  the  sky  I  see  a 
turkey-buzzard  wheeling.  This  is  no  enemy. 
Evidently  the  swifts  mistook  the  buzzard's 
shadow  for  that  of  the  sharp-shinned  hawk. 
Had  it  been  the  hawk,  my  little  bobtailed 
friend  might  have  been  taking  a  dizzy  ride 
through  the  air  to  some  dead  tree -top  at  that 
[87] 


moment,  instead  of  peeking  over  his  rail  to  see 
if  the  coast  were  clear. 

All  the  lesser  hawks  feed  upon  the  swifts.  I 
have  often  seen  the  sparrow-hawk  perched  upon 
a  tall  stake  search-  ^^  ing  the  fences  for 
them.  Cats  eat  MJjj^  them  also.  But  they 
do  not  agree  ,JBfgL  with  puss.  They 
make  a  cat  thin  /Jm\t\  and  morbid  and  un- 


"  The  sparrow- 
hawk  searching  the 
fences  for  them." 


happy.     We  can  tell  when  the  lizard-catching 
disease  is  upon  Tom  by  his  loss  of  appetite,  his 
lankness,  and  his   melancholy  expression. 
[88] 


All  fear  of  the  hawk  is  passed,  and  the  lizards 
come  out  into  the  light  again.  Presently  one 
leaves  the  rails,  runs  over  my  foot,  and  dashes  by 
short  stages  into  the  field.  He  is  after  a  nest  of 
ants,  or  is  chasing  a  long-legged  spider.  It  is 
worth  while  to  follow  them  when  they  take  to 
the  fields,  for  they  may  let  you  into  a  secret,  as 
they  once  did  me. 

About  a  hundred  feet  into  the  melon-patch 
stands  an  old  and  very  terrible  scarecrow.  It 
is  quite  without  terrors  for  the  swifts,  however. 
Around  this  monster's  feet  the  soil  is  bare  and 
open  to  the  sun.  One  day  I  discovered  a  lizard 
making  her  way  thither,  and  I  followed.  She 
did  not  stop  for  ants  or  spiders,  but  whisked 
under  the  vines  and  hastened  on  as  if  bound  on 
some  urgent  business.  And  so  she  was. 

When  she  reached  the  warm,  open  sand  at 
the  scarecrow's  feet,  she  dug  out  a  little  hollow, 
and,  to  my  utter  amazement,  deposited  therein 
seven  tough,  yellowish,  pea-like  eggs,  covered 
them  with  sand,  and  raced  back  to  the  rail-pile. 
That  was  all.  Her  maternal  duties  were  done, 
her  cares  over.  She  had  been  a  faithful  mother 
to  the  last  degree,— even  to  the  covering  up  of 
[89] 


her  eggs,— and  now  she  left  them  to  the  kindly 
skies.  About  the  middle  of  July  they  hatched, 
and,  in  finding  their  way  to  the  rail-pile,  they 
stopped  at  the  first  mound  on  the  road,  and 
began  life  in  earnest  upon  a  fiery  dinner  of  red 
ants. 

It  looks  as  if  nature  were  partial  in  the  care 
she  takes  of  her  children.  How  long  she  both- 
ers and  fusses  over  us,  for  instance,  and  how, 
without  one  touch  of  parental  care  or  interest, 
she  tosses  the  lizard  out,  even  before  he  is 
hatched,  to  shift  for  himself.  If,  however,  we 
could  eat  red  ants  the  day  we  are  born  and 
thrive  on  them,  I  suppose  that  our  mothers,  too, 
without  much  concern,  might  let  us  run. 

The  day -old  babies  join  their  elders  upon  the 
rails,  and  are  received  with  great  good  humor— 
with  pleasure,  indeed ;  for  the  old  ones  seem  to 
enjoy  the  play  of  the  youngsters,  and  allow  them 
to  climb  over  their  backs  and  claw  and  scratch 
them  without  remonstrance.  The  swifts  are 
gentle,  peaceable,  and  sweet-tempered.  They 
rarely  fight  among  themselves.  The  only  time 
that  I  ever  found  one  out  of  humor  was  when 
she  was  anxiously  hunting  for  a  place  in  which 
[90] 


to  leave  her  eggs.  The  trouble  of  it  all  made 
her  cross,  and  as  I  picked  her  up  she  tried  to 
bite  me.  And  I  ought  to  have  been  bitten. 

Ordinarily ,  however,  the  swifts  are  remark- 
ably docile  and  friendly.  If  treated  kindly, 
they  will  allow  you  to  stroke  them  and  handle 
them  freely  within  a  few  minutes  after  capture. 
I  have  sometimes  had  them  cling  to  my  coat  of 
their  own  will  as  I  tramped  about  the  woods. 
They  hiss  and  open  their  mouths  when  first 
taken ;  but  their  teeth  could  not  prick  one's 
skin  if  they  did  strike. 

They  are  clean,  pretty,  interesting  pets  to 
have  about  the  house  and  yard.  They  are  easily 
tamed,  and,  in  spite  of  their  agility,  they  are  no 
trouble  at  all  to  capture.  I  have  often  caught 
them  with  my  unaided  hand ;  but  an  almost 
sure  way  is  to  take  a  long  culm  of  green  grass, 
strip  oif  the  plume,  and  make  a  snood  of  the 
wire-like  end. 

A  swift  is  sunning  himself  upon  a  rail.  He 
rises  upon  his  front  legs,  as  you  approach,  to 
watch  you.  Carefully  now !  Don't  try  to  get 
too  near.  You  can  just  reach  him.  Now  your 
snood  is  slipping  over  his  nose ;  it  tickles  him ; 
[91] 


lie  enjoys  it,  and  shuts  his  eyes.  The  grass  loop 
is  about  his  neck ;  he  discovers  it,  and— pull ! 
for  he  leaps.  If  the  snood  does  not  break  you 
have  him  dangling  in  the  air.  Bring  him  to 
your  coat  now,  and  touch  him  lightly  till  his 
fear  is  dispelled,  then  loose  him,  and  he  will  stay 
with  you  for  hours. 

When  upon  a  tree  you  may  seize  him  with 
your  bare  hand  by  coming  up  from  behind. 
But  never  try  to  catch  him  by  the  tail ;  for  liz- 
ards' tails  were  not  made  for  that  purpose, 
though,  from  their  length  and  convenience  to 
grasp,  and ]  from  the  careless  way  their  owners 
have  of  leaving  them  sticking  out,  it  seems  as  if 
nature  intended  them  merely  for  handles. 

In  my  haste  to  catch  the  bobtailed  lizard  of 
the  rail-pile,  I  carelessly  clapped  my  hand  upon 
his  long,  scaly  tail,  when,  by  a  quick  turn,  he 
mysteriously  unjointed  himself  from  it,  leaving 
the  appendage  with  me,  while  he  scampered  off 
along  the  rails.  He  is  now  growing  another 
tail  for  some  future  emergency. 

Between  eating,  sleeping,  and  dodging  shad- 
ows, the  lizards  spend  their  day,  and  about  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon  disappear.  Where  do 
[92] 


they  spend  their  night?  They  go  somewhere 
from  the  dew  and  cold ;  but  where  ? 

There  is  a  space  about  two  inches  deep  be- 
tween the  window-sash  and  the  net-frames  in  my 
room.  Some  time  ago  I  put  a  number  of  swifts 
upon  the  netting,  covered  the  window-sill  with 
sand,  and  thus  improvised  an  ideal  lizard- cage. 
All  I  had  to  do  to  feed  them  was  to  raise  the 
window,  drive  the  flies  from  the  room  on  to  the 
netting,  and  close  the  sash.  The  lizards  then 
caught  them  at  their  leisure. 

Two  days  after  they  were  transferred  here,  and 
had  begun  to  feel  at  home  and  fearless  of  me, 
I  noticed,  as  night  came  on,  that  they  de- 
scended from  the  netting  and  disappeared  in  the 
sand.  I  put  my  finger  in  and  took  one  out,  and 
found  that  the  sand  was  much  warmer  than  the 
dewy  night  air. 

This  was  their  bed,  and  this  explained  the 
sleeping  habits  of  the  free,  wild  ones.  The  sand 
remains  warm  long  after  the  sun  sets  and  makes 
them  a  comfortable  bed.  Into  the  sand  they  go 
also  to  escape  the  winter.  They  must  get  down 
a  foot  or  more  to  be  rid  of  the  frost ;  and  being 
poor  diggers,  they  hunt  up  the  hole  of  some 
[93] 


other  creature,  or  work  their  way  among  the 
decayed  roots  of  some  old  stump  until  below  the 
danger-line.  By  the  middle  of  September  they 
have  made  their  beds,  and  when  they  wake  up, 
the  melons  will  be  started  and  the  May  sunshine 
warm  upon  the  rails. 


[94] 


IN   THE   OCTOBER   MOON 


THE   OCTOBER   MOON 


AN  October  night,  calm,  crisp,  and  moonlit ! 
J_\.  There  is  a  delicate  aroma  from  the  falling 
leaves  in  the  air,  as  sweet  as  the  scent  of  fresh- 
filled  haymows.  The  woods  are  silent,  shadowy, 
and  sleepful,  lighted  dimly  by  the  moon,  as  a 
vague,  happy  dream  lights  the  dark  valley  of  our 
sleep.  Dreamful  is  this  night  world,  but  yet  not 
dreaming.  When,  in  the  highest  noon,  did  every 
leaf,  every  breeze,  seem  so  much  a  self,  so  full  of 
ready  life  ?  The  very  twigs  that  lie  brittle  and 
dead  beneath  our  feet  seem  wakeful  now  and  on 
the  alert.  In  this  silence  we  feel  myriad  mov- 
ings  everywhere ;  and  we  know  that  this  sleep 
i  [97] 


is  but  the  sleep  of  the  bivouac  fires,  that  an  army 
is  breaking  camp  to  move  under  cover  of  the 
night.  Every  wild  thing  that  knows  the  dark 
will  be  stirring  to-night.  And  what  softest  foot 
can  fall  without  waking  the  woods  1 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn 

leaves  lie  dead; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's 

tread. 

Not  a  mouse  can  scurry,  not  a  chestnut  drop, 
not  a  wind  whisper  among  these  new-fallen 
leaves  without  discovery  j  even  a  weasel  cannot 
dart  across  the  moon- washed  path  and  not  leave 
a  streak  of  brown  upon  the  silver,  plain  enough 
to  follow. 

A  morning  in  May  is  best  of  all  the  year  to  be 
afield  with  the  birds  ;  but  to  watch  for  the  wild 
four-footed  things,  a  moonlight  night  in  October 
is  the  choice  of  the  seasons.  May -time  is  bird- 
time.  That  is  their  spring  of  mate-winning  and 
nest-building,  and  it  bubbles  over  with  life  and 
song.  The  birds  are  ardent  lovers  ;  they  some- 
times fight  in  their  wooing  :  but  fighting  or  sing- 
ing, they  are  frank,  happy  creatures,  and  always 
willing  to  see  you.  The  mammals  are  just  as 
[98] 


ardent  lovers  as  the  birds,  and  infinitely  more 
serious.  But  they  are  not  poets ;  they  are  not 
in  the  show  business ;  and  they  want  no  out- 
sider to  come  and  listen  to  their  pretty  story  of 
woe.  Their  spring,  their  courting-time,  is  not  a 
time  of  song  and  play.  The  love-affairs  of  a 
timid,  soulful-eyed  rabbit  are  so  charged  and  in- 
tense as  not  always  to  be  free  from  tragedy. 
Don't  expect  any  attention  in  the  spring,  even 
from  that  bunch  of  consuming  curiosity,  the  red 
squirrel ;  he  has  something  in  hand,  for  once, 
more  to  his  mind  than  quizzing  you.  Life  with 
the  animals  then,  and  through  the  summer,  has 
too  much  of  love  and  fight  and  fury,  is  too 
terribly  earnest,  to  admit  of  any  frolic. 

But  autumn  brings  release  from  most  of  these 
struggles.  There  is  surcease  of  love ;  there  is 
abundance  of  food ;  and  now  the  only  passions 
of  the  furry  breasts  are  such  gentle  desires  as 
abide  with  the  curious  and  the  lovers  of  peace 
and  plenty.  The  animals  are  now  engrossed 
with  the  task  of  growing  fat  and  furry. 
Troubled  with  no  higher  ambitions,  curiosity, 
sociability,  and  a  thirst  for  adventure  begin  to 
work  within  them  these  long  autumn  nights, 
[99] 


and  not  one  of  them,  however  wild  and  fearful, 
can  resist  his  bent  to  prowl  in  the  light  of  the 
October  moon. 

To  know  much  of  the  wild  animals  at  home 
one  must  live  near  their  haunts,  with  eyes  and 
ears  open,  forever  on  the  watch.  For  you  must 
wait  their  pleasure.  You  cannot  entreat  them 
for  the  sake  of  science,  nor  force  them  in  the 
name  of  the  law.  You  cannot  set  up  your  easel 
in  the  meadow,  and  hire  a  mink  or  muskrat  to 
pose  for  you  any  time  you  wish ;  neither  can 
you  call,y  when  you  like,  at  the  hollow  gum  in 
the  swamp  and  interview  a  coon.  The  animals 
flatly  refuse  to  sit  for  their  pictures,  and  to  see 
reporters  and  assessors.  But  carry  your  sketch- 
book and  pad  with  you,  and,  after  a  while,  in 
the  most  unlikely  times  and  places,  the  wariest 
will  give  you  sittings  for  a  finished  picture,  and 
the  most  reticent  will  tell  you  nearly  all  that 
he  knows. 

At  no  time  of  the  year  are  the  animals  so 
loquacious,  so  easy  of  approach,  as  along  in  the 
October  nights.  There  is  little  to  be  seen  of 
them  by  day.  They  are  cautious  folk.  By  na- 
ture most  of  them  are  nocturnal ;  and  when  this 
[100] 


habit  is  not  inherited,  fear  has  led  to  its  acqui- 
sition. But  protected  by  the  dark,  the  shy  and 
suspicious  creep  out  of  their  hiding-places  ;  they 
travel  along  the  foot-paths,  they  play  in  the 
wagon- roads,  they  feed  in  our  gardens,  and  I 
have  known  them  to  help  themselves  from  our 
chicken-coops.  If  one  has  never  haunted  the 
fields  and  woods  at  night  he  little  knows  their 
multitude  of  wild  life.  Many  a  hollow  stump 
and  uninteresting  hole  in  the  ground— tombs 
by  day— give  up  their  dead  at  night,  and  some- 
thing more  than  ghostly  shades  come  forth. 

If  one's  pulse  quickens  at  the  sight  and  sound 
of  wild  things  stirring,  and  he  has  never  seen, 
in  the  deepening  dusk,  a  long,  sniffling  snout 
poked  slowly  out  of  a  hollow  chestnut,  the  glint 
of  black,  beady  eyes,  the  twitch  of  papery  ears, 
then  a  heavy-bodied  possum  issue  from  the  hole, 
clasping  the  edge  with  its  tail,  to  gaze  calmly 
about  before  lumbering  off  among  the  shadows 
— then  he  still  has  something  to  go  into  the 
woods  for. 

Our  forests  by  daylight  are  rapidly  being 
thinned  into  picnic  groves ;  the  bears  and  pan- 
thers have  disappeared,  and  by  day  there  is 
[101] 


nothing  to  fear,  nothing  to  give  our  imaginations 
exercise.  But  the  night  remains,  and  if  we 
hunger  for  adventure,  why,  besides  the  night, 
here  is  the  skunk ;  and  the  two  offer  a  pretty 
sure  chance  for  excitement.  Never  to  have 
stood  face  to  face  in  a  narrow  path  at  night 
with  a  full-grown,  leisurely  skunk  is  to  have 
missed  excitement  and  suspense  second  only  to 
the  staring  out  of  countenance  of  a  green-eyed 
wildcat.  It  is  surely  worth  while,  in  these  days 
of  parks  and  chipmunks,  when  all  stir  and  ad- 
venture has  fled  the  woods,  to  sally  out  at  night 
for  the  mere  sake  of  meeting  a  skunk,  for  the 
shock  of  standing  before  a  beast  that  will  not 
give  you  the  path.  As  you  back  away  from 
him  you  feel  as  if  you  were  really  escaping.  If 
there  is  any  genuine  adventure  left  for  us  in 
this  age  of  suburbs,  we  must  be  helped  to  it  by 
the  dark. 

Who  ever  had  a  good  look  at  a  muskrat  in 
the  glare  of  day?  I  was  drifting  noiselessly 
down  the  river,  recently,  when  one  started  to 
cross  just  ahead  of  my  boat.  He  got  near 
midstream,  recognized  me,  and  went  under  like 
a  flash.  Even  a  glimpse  like  this  cannot  be  had 
[102] 


every  summer ;  but  in  the  autumn  nights  you 
cannot  hide  about  their  houses  and  fail  to  see 
them.  In  October  they  are  building  their  win- 
ter lodges,  and  the  clumsiest  watcher  may  spy 


V 

"  In  October  they  are  building  their  winter  lodges. ' 

them  glistening  in  the  moonlight  as  they  climb 
with  loads  of  sedge  and  mud  to  the  roofs  of  their 
sugar-loaf  houses.  They  are  readily  seen,  too, 
making  short  excursions  into  the  meadows  ;  and 
occasionally  the  desire  to  rove  and  see  the  world 
will  take  such  hold  upon  one  as  to  drive  him  a 
mile  from  water,  and  he  will  slink  along  in  the 
shadow  of  the  fences  and  explore  your  dooryard 
F1031 


and  premises.  Frequently,  in  the  late  winter,  I 
have  followed  their  tracks  on  these  night  jour- 
neys through  the  snow  between  ponds  more 
than  a  mile  apart. 

But  there  is  larger  game  abroad  than  musk- 
rats  and  possums.  These  October  nights  the 
quail  are  in  covey,  the  mice  are  alive  in  the  dry 
grass,  and  the  foxes  are  abroad.  Lying  along 
the  favorite  run  of  Reynard,  you  may  see  him. 
There  are  many  sections  of  the  country  where 
the  rocks  and  mountains  and  wide  areas  of 
sterile  pine-land  still  afford  the  foxes  safe 
homes  ;  but  in  most  localities  Reynard  is  rapidly 
becoming  a  name,  a  creature  of  fables  and  folk- 
lore only.  The  rare  sight  of  his  clean,  sharp 
track  in  the  dust,  or  in  the  mud  along  the 
margin  of  the  pond,  adds  flavor  to  a  whole 
day's  tramping  ;  and  the  glimpse  of  one  in  the 
moonlight,  trotting  along  a  cow-path  or  lying 
low  for  Br'er  Rabbit,  is  worth  many  nights  of 
watching. 

I  wish  the  game-laws  could  be  amended  to 

cover  every  wild  animal  left  to  us.     In  spite  of 

laws  they  are  destined  to  disappear ;  but  if  the 

fox,  weasel,  mink,  and  skunk,  the  hawks  and 

[104] 


owls,  were  protected  as  the  quail  and  deer  are, 
they  might  be  preserved  a  long  time  to  our 
meadows  and  woods.  How  irreparable  the  loss 
to  our  landscape  is  the  extinction  of  the  great 
golden  eagle  !  How  much  less  of  spirit,  daring, 
courage,  and  life  come  to  us  since  we  no  longer 
mark  the  majestic  creature  soaring  among  the 
clouds,  the  monarch  of  the  skies !  A  dreary 
world  it  will  be  out  of  doors  when  we  can  hear 
no  more  the  scream  of  the  hawks,  can  no 
longer  find  the  tracks  of  the  coon,  nor  follow 
a  fox  to  den.  We  can  well  afford  to  part  with 
a  turnip,  a  chicken,  and  even  with  a  suit  of 
clothes,  now  and  then,  for  the  sake  of  this  wild 
flavor  to  our  fenced  pastures  and  close-cut 
meadows. 

I  ought  to  have  named  the  crow  in  the  list 
deserving  protection.  He  steals.  So  did  Fal- 
staff.  But  I  should  miss  Falstaff  had  Shakspere 
left  him  out ;  yet  no  more  than  I  should  miss 
the  crow  were  he  driven  from  the  pines.  They 
are  both  very  human.  Jim  Crow  is  the  humanest 
bird  in  feathers.  The  skunk  I  did  include  in 
the  list.  It  was  not  by  mistake.  The  skunk 
has  a  good  and  safe  side  to  him,  when  we  know 
[105] 


"%1 


1  The  glimpse  of  Reynard  in  the  moonlight. 


how  to  approach  him.  The  skunk  wants  a 
champion.  Some  one  ought  to  spend  an  entire 
October  moon  with  him  and  give  us  the  better 
side  of  his  character.  If  some  one  would  take 
the  trouble  to  get  well  acquainted  with  him  at 
home,  it  might  transpire  that  we  have  grievously 
abused  and  avoided  him. 

There  is  promise  of  a  future  for  the  birds  in 
their  friendship  for  us  and  in  our  interest  and 
sentiment  for  them.  Everybody  is  interested  in 
birds  5  everybody  loves  them.  There  are  bird- 
books  and  bird-books  and  bird-books—new  vol- 
umes in  every  publisher's  spring  announcements. 
Every  one  with  wood  ways  knows  the  songs  and 
nests  of  the  more  common  species.  But  this  is 
not  so  with  the  four-footed  animals.  They  are 
fewer,  shyer,  more  difficult  of  study.  Only  a 
few  of  us  are  enthusiastic  enough  to  back  into  a 
hole  in  a  sand-bank  and  watch  all  night  for  the 
"beasts"  with  dear  old  Tarn  Edwards. 

But  such  nights  of  watching,  when  every  fallen 
leaf  is  a  sentinel  and  every  moonbeam  a  spy,  will 
let  us  into  some  secrets  about  the  ponds  and  fields 
that  the  sun,  old  and  all-seeing  as  he  is,  will 
never  know.  Our  eyes  were  made  for  daylight ; 
[107] 


but  I  think  if  the  anatomists  tried  they  might 
find  the  rudiments  of  a  third,  a  night  eye,  behind 
the  other  two.  From  my  boyhood  I  certainly 
have  seen  more  things  at  night  than  the  bright- 
est day  ever  knew  of.  If  our  eyes  were  intended 
for  day  use,  our  other  senses  seem  to  work  best 
by  night.  Do  we  not  take  the  deepest  impres- 
sions when  the  plates  of  these  sharpened  senses 
are  exposed  in  the  dark?  Even  in  moonlight 
our  eyes  are  blundering  things  $  but  our  hearing, 
smell,  and  touch  are  so  quickened  by  the  alert- 
ness of  night  that,  with  a  little  training,  the 
imagination  quite  takes  the  place  of  sight— a 
new  sense,  swift  and  vivid,  that  adds  an  excite- 
ment an^.  freshness  to  the  pleasure  of  out-of- 
door  study,  impossible  to  get  through  our  two 
straightforward,  honest  day  eyes. 

Albeit,  let  us  stay  at  home  and  sleep  when 
there  is  no  moon ;  and  even  when  she  climbs  up 
big  and  round  and  bright,  there  is  no  surety  of 
a  fruitful  excursion  before  the  frosts  fall.  In 
the  summer  the  animals  are  worn  with  home 
cares  and  doubly  wary  for  their  young  ;  the  grass 
is  high,  the  trees  dark,  and  the  yielding  green  is 
silent  under  even  so  clumsy  a  crawler  as  the  box- 
[108] 


turtle.  But  by  October  the  hum  of  insects  is 
stilled,  the  meadows  are  mown,  the  trees  and 
bushes  are  getting  bare,  the  moon  pours  in  un- 
hindered, and  the  crisp  leaves  crackle  and  rustle 
under  the  softest-padded  foot. 


[109] 


FEATHERED   NEIGHBORS 


FEATHERED   NEIGHBORS 


THE  electric  cars  run  past  my  door,  with  a 
switch  almost  in  front  of  the  house.     I  can 
hear  a  car  rumbling  in  the  woods  on  the  west, 
and   another  pounding  through  the  valley  on 
the   east,  till,   shrieking,    groaning,    crunching, 
crashing,  they  dash  into  view,  pause  a  moment 
on  the  switch,  and  thunder  on  to  east  and  west 
till  out  of  hearing.     Then,  for  thirty  minutes,  a 
silence  settles  as  deep  as  it  lay  here  a  century 
[113] 


ago.  Dogs  bark  ;  an  anvil  rings  ;  wagons  rattle 
by ;  and  children  shout  about  the  cross-roads. 
But  these  sounds  have  become  the  natural 
voices  of  the  neighborhood— mother- tongues 
like  the  chat  of  the  brook,  the  talk  of  the 
leaves,  and  the  caw  of  the  crows.  And  these 
voices,  instead  of  disturbing,  seem  rather  to  lull 
the  stillness. 

But  the  noise  of  the  cars  has  hardly  died 
away,  and  the  quiet  come,  when  a  long,  wild  cry 
breaks  in  upon  it.  Yarup  !  yarup  !  yarup-up-up- 
up-up  !  in  quick  succession  sounds  the  call,  fol- 
lowed pstantly  by  a  rapid,  rolling  bea,t  that 
rings  through  the  morning  hush  like  a  reveille 
with  bugle  and  drum. 

It  is  the  cry  of  the  "nicker,"  the  "  high-hole." 
He  is  propped  against  a  pole  along  the  street 
railroad,  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  He 
has  a  hole  in  this  pole,  almost  under  the  iron 
arm  that  holds  the  polished,  pulsing  wire  for  the 
trolley.  It  is  a  new  house,  which  the  bird  has 
been  working  at  for  more  than  a  week,  and  it 
must  be  finished  now,  for  this  lusty  call  is  an 
invitation  to  the  warming.  I  shall  go,  and, 
between  the  passing  of  the  cars,  witness  the 
[114] 


bowing,  the  squeaking,  the  palaver.  A  high- 
hole  warming  is  the  most  utterly  polite  func- 
tion in  birddom. 

Some  of  my  friends  were  talking  of  birds, 
not  long  ago,  when  one  of  them  turned  to  me 
and  said  hopelessly : 

"'T  is  no  use.  We  can't  save  them  even  if 
we  do  stop  wearing  them  upon  our  hats.  Civi- 
lization is  bound  to  sweep  them  away.  We 
shall  be  in  a  birdless  world  pretty  soon,  in  spite 
of  laws  and  Audubon  societies." 

I  made  no  reply,  but,  for  an  answer,  led  the 
way  to  the  street  and  down  the  track  to  this 
pole  which  High-hole  had  appropriated.  I 
pointed  out  his  hole,  and  asked  them  to  watch. 
Then  I  knocked.  Instantly  a  red  head  ap- 
peared at  the  opening.  High-hole  was  mad 
enough  to  eat  us ;  but  he  changed  his  mind, 
and,  with  a  bored,  testy  flip,  dived  into  the 
woods.  He  had  served  my  purpose,  however, 
for  his  red  head  sticking  out  of  a  hole  in  a 
street-railway  pole  was  as  a  rising  sun  in  the 
east  of  my  friends'  ornithological  world.  New 
light  broke  over  this  question  of  birds  and 
men.  The  cars  drive  High-hole  away  !  Not  so 
[115] 


long  as  cars  run  by  overhead  wires  on  wooden 
poles. 

High-hole  is  a  civilized  bird.  Perhaps  " do- 
mesticated "  would  better  describe  him  ;  though 
domesticated  implies  the  purposeful  effort  of 
man  to  change  character  and  habits,  while  the 
changes  which  have  come  over  High-hole— and 
over  most  of  the  wild  birds— are  the  result  of 
High-hole's  own  free  choosing. 

If  we  should  let  the  birds  have  their  way 
they  would  voluntarily  fall  into  civilized,  if 
not  into  domesticated,  habits.  They  have  no 
deep -seated  hostility  toward  us  ;  they  have  not 
been  the  aggressors  in  the  long,  bitter  war  of 
extermination ;  they  have  ever  sued  for  peace. 
Instead  of  feeling  an  instinctive  enmity,  the 
birds  are  drawn  toward  us  by  the  strongest  of 
interests.  If  nature  anywhere  shows  us  her 
friendship,  and  her  determination,  against  all 
odds,  to  make  that  friendship  strong,  she  shows 
it  through  the  birds.  The  way  they  forgive 
and  forget,  their  endless  efforts  at  reconcilia- 
tion, and  their  sense  of  obligation,  ought  to 
shame  us.  They  sing  over  every  acre  that  we 
reclaim,  as  if  we  had  saved  it  for  them  only ; 
[-1J6] 


and  in  return  they  probe  the  lawns  most  dili- 
gently for  worms,  they  girdle  the  apple-trees 
for  grubs,  and  gallop  over  the  whole  wide  sky 


\..l«*.  .,15    i 


"  They  probe  the  lawns  most  diligently  for  worms." 

for  gnats  and  flies— squaring  their  account,  if 
may  be,  for  cherries,  orchards,  and  chimneys. 

The  very  crows,  in  spite  of  certain  well- 
founded  fears,  look  upon  a  new  farm — not  upon 
the  farmer,  perhaps — as  a  godsend.  In  the  cold 
and  poverty  of  winter,  not  only  the  crows,  but 
the  jays,  quails,  buntings,  and  sparrows,  help 
themselves,  as  by  right,  from  our  shocks  and 
cribs.  Summer  and  winter  the  birds  find  food 
so  much  more  plentiful  about  the  farm  and  vil- 
lage, find  living  in  all  respects  so  much  easier 
and  happier  here  than  in  remote,  wild  regions, 
[117] 


Even  he  loves  a  listener.' 


that,  as  a  whole,  they  have  become  a  suburban 
people. 

But  life  is  more  than  meat  for  the  birds. 
There  is  a  subtle  yet  real  attraction  for  them 
in  human  society.  They  like  its  stir  and 
change,  its  attention  and  admiration.  The 
shyest  and  most  modest  of  the  birds  pines  for 
appreciation.  The  cardinal  grosbeak,  retiring 
as  he  is,  cannot  believe  that  he  was  born  to 
blush  unseen— to  the  tip  of  his  beautiful  crest. 
And  the  hermit-thrush,  meditative,  spiritual, 
and  free  as  the  heart  of  the  swamp  from  world  - 
liness— even  he  loves  a  listener,  and  would  not 
waste  his  sweetness  any  longer  on  desert  forest 
air.  I  do  not  know  a  single  bird  who  does  not 
prefer  a  wood  with  a  wagon- road  through  it. 

My  friends  had  smiled  at  such  assertions  be- 
fore their  introduction  to  the  bird  in  the  pole. 
They  knew  just  enough  of  woodpeckers  to  ex- 
pect High-hole  to  build  in  the  woods,  and,  when 
driven  from  there,  to  disappear,  to  extinguish 
himself,  rather  than  stoop  to  an  existence  with- 
in walls  of  hardly  the  dignity  and  privacy  of 
a  hitching-post. 

He  is  a  proud  bird  and  a  wild  bird,  but  a 
[119] 


practical,  sensible  bird  withal.  Strong  of  wing 
and  mighty  of  voice,  he  was  intended  for  a  vig- 
orous, untamed  life,  and  even  yet  there  is  the 
naked  savage  in  his  bound  and  his  whoop.  But 
electric  cars  have  come,  with  smooth-barked 
poles,  and  these  are  better  than  rotten  trees, 
despite  the  jangle  and  hum  of  wires  and  the 
racket  of  grinding  wheels.  Like  the  rest  of  us, 
he  has  not  put  oif  his  savagery  :  he  has  simply 
put  on  civilization.  Street  cars  are  a  conve- 
nience and  a  diversion.  He  has  wings  and 
wildest  freedom  any  moment,  and  so,  even 
though  ]aeavy  timber  skirts  the  track  and 
shadows  his  pole,  and  though  across  the  road 
opposite  stands  a  house  where  there  are  chil- 
dren, dogs,  and  cats,  nevertheless,  High-hole 
follows  his  fancy,  and  instead  of  building  back 
in  the  seclusion  and  safety  of  the  woods,  comes 
out  to  the  street,  the  railroad,  the  children,  and 
the  cats,  and  digs  him  a  modern  house  in  this 
sounding  cedar  pole. 

Perhaps  it  is  imagination,  but  I  think  that  I 
can  actually  see  High-hole  changing  his  wood 
ways  for  the  ways  of  the  village.     He  grows 
tamer  and  more  trustful  every  summer. 
[120] 


A  pair  have  their  nest  in  a  telegraph-pole 
near  the  school -house,  where  they  are  constantly 
mauled  by  the  boys.  I  was  passing  one  day 
when  two  youngsters  rushed  to  the  pole  and 
dragged  out  the  poor  harassed  hen  for  my  edi- 
fication. She  was  seized  by  one  wing,  and  came 
out  flapping,  her  feathers  pulled  and  splintered. 
She  had  already  lost  all  but  two  quills  from  her 
tail  through  previous  exhibitions.  I  opened 
my  hands,  and  she  flew  across  the  pasture  to  the 
top  of  a  tree,  and  waited  patiently  till  we  went 


"  She  flew  across  the  pasture." 


away.  She  then  returned,  knowing,  appa- 
rently, that  we  were  boys  and  a  necessary  evil 
of  village  life. 

[121] 


But  this  pole -life  marks  only  half  the  dis- 
tance that  these  birds  have  come  from  the 
woods. 

One  warm  Sunday  of  a  recent  March,  in  the 
middle  of  my  morning  sermon,  a  ghostly  rap- 
ping was  heard  through  the  meeting-house.  I 
paused.  Tap,  tap,  tap  !  hollow  and  ominous  it 
echoed.  Every  soul  was  awake  in  an  instant. 
Was  it  a  summons  from—  ?  But  two  of  the 
small  boys  grinned ;  some  one  whispered 
"flicker";  and  I  gathered  my  ornithological 
wits  together  in  time  to  save  the  pause  and 
proceed  w|th  the  service. 

After  the  people  went  home  I  found  three 
flicker-holes  in  the  latticework  over  the  north 
windows.  One  of  last  year's  tenants  had  got 
back  that  morning  from  the  South,  and  had 
gone  to  work  cleaning  up  and  putting  things 
to  rights  in  his  house,  regardless  of  Sabbath 
and  sermon. 

This  approach  of  the  flicker  to  domestic  life 
and  human  fellowship  is  an  almost  universal 
movement  among  the  birds.  And  no  tendency 
anywhere  in  wild  life  is  more  striking.  The 
four-footed  animals  are  rapidly  disappearing 
[122] 


'•  Putting  things  to 
rights  in  his  house.' 


before  the  banging  car  and  spreading  town,  yet 
the  birds  welcome  these  encroachments  and 
thrive  on  them.  One  never  gets  used  to  the 
contrast  in  the  bird  life  of  uninhabited  places 
with  that  about  human  dwellings.  Thoreau 
tells  his  wonder  and  disappointment  at  the 
dearth  of  birds  in  the  Maine  woods  ;  Burroughs 
reads  about  it,  and  goes  off  to  the  mountains, 
but  has  himself  such  an  aggravated  shock  of 
the  same  surprise  that  he  also  writes  about  it. 
The  few  hawks  and  rarer  wood  species  found  in 
these  wild  places  are  shy  and  elusive.  More 
and  more,  in  spite  of  all  they  know  of  us,  the 
birds  choose  our  proximity  over  the  wilderness. 
Indeed,  the  longer  we  live  together,  the  less 
they  fear  and  suspect  us. 


II 


USING  my  home  for  a  center,  you  may  describe 
a  circle  of  a  quarter-mile  radius  and  all  the  way 
round  find  that  radius  intersecting  either  a 
house,  a  dooryard,  or  an  orchard.  Yet  within 
this  small  and  settled  area  I  found  one  summer 
thirty-six  species  of  birds  nesting.  Can  any 
[123] 


"  A  very  ordinary  New 
England  '  corner. ' " 


cabin  in  the  Adirondacks  open  its  window  to 
more  voices— any  square  mile  of  solid,  unbacked 
forest  on  the  globe  show  richer,  gayer  variety  of 
bird  life? 

The  nightingale,  the  dodo,  and  the  ivorybill 
were  not  among  these  thirty-six.  What  then  ? 
If  one  can  live  on  an  electric -car  line,  inside  the 
borders  of  a  fine  city,  have  his  church  across  the 
road,  his  blacksmith  on  the  corner,  his  neigh- 
bors within  easy  call,  and,  with  all  this,  have 
any  thirty -six  species  of  birds  nesting  within 
ear-shot,  ought  he  to  ache  for  the  Archseopteryx, 
or  rail  at  civilization  as  a  destroyer  ? 

There  is  nothing  remarkable  about  this  bit  of 
country.  I  could  plant  myself  at  the  center  of 
such  a  circle  anywhere  for  miles  around  and 
find  just  as  many  birds.  Perhaps  the  land  is 
more  rocky  and  hilly,  the  woods  thicker,  the 
gardens  smaller  here  than  is  common  elsewhere 
in  eastern  Massachusetts  ;  otherwise,  aside  from 
a  gem  of  a  pond,  this  is  a  very  ordinary  New 
England  "corner." 

On  the  west  side  of  my  yard  lies  a  cultivated 
field,  beyond  which  stands  an  ancient  apple 
orchard ;  on  the  east  the  yard  is  hedged  by  a 
[125] 


tract  of  sprout-land  which  is  watched  over  by  a 
few  large  pines  ;  at  the  north,  behind  the  house 
and  garden,  runs  a  wall  of  chestnut  and  oak, 
which  ten  years  ago  would  have  been  cut  but 
for  some  fortunate  legal  complication.  Such 
is  the  character  of  the  whole  neighborhood. 
Patches  of  wood  and  swamp,  pastures,  orchards, 
and  gardens,  cut  in  every  direction  by  roads  and 
paths,  and  crossed  by  one  tiny  stream— this  is 
the  circle  of  the  thirty-six. 

Not  one  of  these  nests  is  beyond  a  stone's 
throw  from  a  house.  Seven  of  them,  indeed,  are 
in  houses;  or  barns,  or  in  boxes  placed  about 
the  dooryards ;  sixteen  of  them  are  in  orchard 
trees ;  and  the  others  are  distributed  along  the 
roads,  over  the  fields,  and  in  the  woods. 

Among  the  nearest  of  these  feathered  neigh- 
bors is  a  pair  of  bluebirds  with  a  nest  in  one  of 
the  bird-boxes  in  the  yard.  The  bluebirds  are 
still  untamed,  building,  as  I  have  often  found,  in 
the  wildest  spots  of  the  woods ;  but  seen  about 
the  house,  there  is  something  so  reserved,  so 
gentle  and  refined  in  their  voice  and  manner  as 
to  shed  an  atmosphere  of  good  breeding  about 
the  whole  yard.  What  a  contrast  they  are  to 
[126] 


"  They  are  the  first  to 
return  in  the  spring." 


the  English  sparrows  !  What  a  rebuke  to  city 
manners ! 

They  are  the  first  to  return  in  the  spring  ;  the 
spring,  rather,  comes  back  with  them.  They 
are  its  wings.  It  could  not  come  on  any  others. 
If  it  tried,  say,  the  tanager's,  would  we  believe 
and  accept  it?  The  bluebird  is  the  only  possi- 
ble interpreter  of  those  first  dark  signs  of 
March ;  through  him  we  have  faith  in  the 
glint  of  the  pussy-willows,  in  the  half-thawed 
peep  of  the  hylas,  and  in  the  northward  flying 
of  the  geese.  Except  for  his  return,  March 
would  be  ythe  one  month  of  all  the  twelve  never 
looked  at  from  the  woods  and  waysides.  He 
comes,  else  we  should  not  know  that  the  waters 
were  falling,  that  a  leaf  could  be  plucked  in  all 
the  bare,  muddy  world. 

Our  feelings  for  the  bluebird  are  much  mixed. 
His  feathers  are  not  the  attraction.  He  is 
bright,  but  on  the  whole  rather  plainly  dressed. 
Nor  is  it  altogether  his  voice  that  draws  us  j 
the  snowflakes  could  hardly  melt  into  tones 
more  mellow,  nor  flecks  of  the  sky's  April  blue 
run  into  notes  more  limpid,  yet  the  bluebird 
is  no  singer.  The  spell  is  in  the  spirit  of  the 
[128] 


bird.  He  is  the  soul  of  this  somber  season, 
voicing  its  sadness  and  hope.  What  other  bird 
can  take  his  place  and  fill  his  mission  in  the 
heavy,  hopeful  days  of  March  ?  We  are  in  no 
mood  for  gaiety  and  show.  Not  until  the 
morning  stars  quarrel  together  will  the  cat-bird 
or  scarlet  tanager  herald  the  spring.  The  ir- 
reverent song  of  a  cat-bird  in  the  gray  gloom 
of  March  would  turn  the  spring  back  and  draw 
the  winter  out  of  his  uncovered  grave.  The 
bluebird  comes  and  broods  over  this  death  and 
birth,  until  the  old  winter  sleeps  his  long  sleep, 
and  the  young  spring  wakes  to  her  beautiful  life. 

Within  my  house  is  another  very  human  little 
bird— the  chimney -swallow.  Sharing  our  very 
firesides  as  he  does,  he  surely  ought  to  have  a 
warm  place  in  our  hearts ;  but  where  have  I 
ever  read  one  word  expressing  the  affection  for 
him  that  is  universally  shown  the  bluebird  ? 

I  am  thinking  of  our  American  swallow.  We 
all  know  how  Gilbert  White  loved  his  chimney- 
swallows — how  he  loved  every  creature  that 
flew  or  crawled  about  the  rectory.  Was  it  an 
ancient  tortoise  in  the  garden?  the  sheep  upon 
the  downs'?  a  brood  of  birds  in  the  chimney ? 
9  [ 129  ] 


%   i 


Where  the  dams  are  hawking  for  flies.' 


No  matter.  Let  the  creatures  manifest  never 
so  slight  a  friendliness  for  him,  let  them  claim 
never  so  little  of  his  protection,  and  the  good 
rector's  heart  went  out  toward  them  as  it  might 
toward  children  of  his  own. 

But  the  swallows  were  White's  fondest  care. 
He  and  his  hirundines  were  inseparable.  He 
thought  of  them,  especially  those  of  the  chim- 
ney, as  members  of  his  household.  One  can  de- 
tect almost  a  father's  interest  and  joy  in  his 
notes  upon  these  little  birds.  Listen  to  the 
parent  in  this  bit  about  the  young  in  Letter 
XVIII.  They  are  just  out  of  the  chimney. 

"They  play  about  near  the  place  where  the 
dams  are  hawking  for  flies  ;  and  when  a  mouthful 
is  collected,  at  a  certain  signal  given,  the  dam  and 
the  nestling  advance,  rising  toward  each  other, 
and  meeting  at  an  angle  ;  the  young  one  all  the 
while  uttering  such  a  little  quick  note  of  grati- 
tude and  complacency  that  a  person  must  have 
paid  very  little  regard  to  the  wonders  of  nature 
that  has  not  often  remarked  this  feat." 

Has  anything  been  written  about  our  swift 
showing  as  faithful  and  sympathetic  observation 
as  that  ?  No.  He  comes  and  goes  without  any 
[131] 


one,  like  Gilbert  White,  being  cheered  by  his 
twitter  or  interested  in  his  doings.  Perhaps  it 
is  because  we  have  so  many  brighter,  sweeter 
birds  about  us  here ;  or  perhaps  our  chimneys 
are  higher  than  those  of  Selborne  Rectory  ;  or 
maybe  we  have  no  Gilbert  White  over  here. 

Of  course  we  have  no  Gilbert  White.  We 
have  not  had  time  to  produce  one.  The  union 
of  man  and  nature  which  yields  the  naturalist 
of  Selborne  is  a  process  of  time.  Our  soil  and 
our  sympathy  are  centuries  savager  than  Eng- 
land's. We  still  look  at  our  lands  with  the 
spirit  off  the  ax ;  we  are  yet  largely  concerned 
with  the  contents  of  the  gizzards  of  our  birds. 
Shall  the  crows  and  cherry-birds  be  extermi- 
nated1? the  sparrows  transported?  the  owls  and 
hawks  put  behind  bars?  Not  until  the  col- 
lectors at  Washington  pronounce  upon  these 
first  questions  can  we  hope  for  a  naturalist  who 
will  find  White's  wonders  in  the  chimney- 
swallow. 

These  little   swifts  are   not  as  attractive  as 

song-sparrows.      They  are    sooty— worse    than 

sooty  sometimes  ;  their  clothes  are  too  tight  for 

them ;  and  they  are  less  musical  than  a  small 

[132] 


boy  with  "  clappers."  Nevertheless  I  could  ill 
spare  them  from  my  family.  They  were  the 
first  birds  I  knew,  my  earliest  home  being  so 
generous  in  its  chimneys  as  to  afford  lodgings  to 
several  pairs  of  them.  This  summer  they  again 
share  my  fireside,  squeaking,  scratching,  and 
thundering  in  the  flue  as  they  used  to  when,  real 
goblins,  they  came  scrambling  down  to  peek  and 
spy  at  me.  I  should  miss  them  from  the  chim- 
ney as  I  should  the  song-sparrows  from  the 
meadow.  They  are  above  the  grate,  to  be  sure, 
while  I  am  in  front  of  it ;  but  we  live  in 
the  same  house,  and  there  is  only  a  wall  be- 
tween us. 

If  the  chimney  would  be  a  dark,  dead  hole 
without  the  swifts,  how  empty  the  summer  sky 
would  be  were  they  not  skimming,  darting,  wig- 
gling across  every  bright  hour  of  it !  They 
are  tireless  fliers,  feeding,  bathing,  love-making, 
and  even  gathering  the  twigs  for  their  nests  on 
the  wing,  never  alighting,  in  fact,  after  leaving 
the  chimney  until  they  return  to  it.  They  rest 
while  flying.  Every  now  and  then  you  will  see 
them  throw  their  wings  up  over  their  heads  till 
the  tips  almost  touch,  and,  in  twos  or  threes, 
[133] 


scale  along  to  the  time  of  their  jolly,  tuneless 
rattle. 

From  May  to  September,  is  there  a  happier 
sight  than  a  flock  of  chimney-swallows,  just  be- 
fore or  just  after  a  shower,  whizzing  about  the 
tops  of  the  corn  or  coursing  over  the  river,  like 
so  many  streaks  of  black  lightning,  ridding  the 
atmosphere  of  its  overcharge  of  gnats !  They 
cut  across  the  rainbow  and  shoot  into  the  rose- 
and  pearl- washed  sky,  and  drop— into  the  depths 
of  a  soot-clogged  chimney  ! 

These  swallows  used  to  build  in  caves  and  in 
clean,  hqllow  trees ;  now  they  nest  only  in 
chimneys.  So  far  have  they  advanced  in  civili- 
zation since  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims  ! 

Upon  the  beams  in  the  top  of  the  barn  the 
brown-breasted,  fork-tailed  barn-swallows  have 
made  their  mud  nests  for  years.  These  birds 
are  wholly  domesticated.  We  cannot  think  of 
them  as  wild.  And  what  a  place  in  our  affec- 
tions they  have  won !  If  it  is  the  bluebirds 
that  bring  the  spring,  the  barn-swallows  fetch 
the  summer.  They  take  us  back  to  the  farm. 
We  smell  the  hay,  we  see  the  cracks  and  knot- 
holes of  light  cutting  through  the  fragrant 
[134] 


I 


"They  cut  across 
the  rainbow." 


gloom  of  the  mows,  we  hear  the  munching 
horses  and  the  summer  rain  upon  the  shingles, 
every  time  a  barn-swallow  slips  past  us. 

For  grace  of  form  and  poetry  of  motion  there 
is  no  rival  for  the  barn-swallow.  When  on 
wing,  where  else,  between  the  point  of  a  beak 
and  the  tips  of  a  tail,  are  there  so  many  marvel- 
ous curves,  such  beautiful  balance  of  parts  ?  On 
the  wing,  I  say.  Upon  his  feet  he  is  as  awk- 
ward as  the  latest  Herreshoff  yacht  upon  the 
stays.  But  he  is  the  yacht  of  the  air.  Every 
line  of  him  is  drawn  for  racing.  The  narrow, 
wide-reaching  wings  and  the  long,  forked  tail 
are  the  perfection  of  lightness,  swiftness,  and 
power.  A  master  designed  him — saved  every 
possible  feather's  weight,  bent  from  stem  to- 
stern,  and  rigged  him  to  outsail  the  very  winds. 

From  the  barn  to  the  orchard  is  no  great 
journey ;  but  it  is  the  distance  between  two 
bird-lands.  One  must  cross  the  Mississippi  basin, 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  or  the  Pacific  Ocean  to 
find  a  greater  change  in  bird  life  than  he  finds 
in  leaping  the  bars  between  the  yard  and  the 
orchard. 

A  bent,  rheumatic,  hoary  old  orchard  is  na- 
[136] 


ture's  smile  in  the  agony  of  her  civilization. 
Men  may  level  the  forests,  clear  the  land  and 
fence  it ;  but  as  long  as  they  plant  orchards, 
bird  life,  at  least,  will  survive  and  prosper. 


"  From  the  barn  to  the  orchard.' 


Except  for  the  warblers,  one  acre  of  apple- 
trees  is  richer  in  the  variety  of  its  birds  than 
ten  acres  of  woods.  In  the  three  unkempt,  de- 
crepit orchards  hereabout,  I  found  the  robin, 
chippy,  orchard-oriole,  cherry-bird,  king-bird, 
crow-blackbird,  bluebird,  chebec,  tree-swallow, 
nicker,  downy  woodpecker,  screech-owl,  yellow 
warbler,  redstart,  and  great- crested  flycatcher 
—all  nesting  as  rightful  heirs  and  proprietors. 
[138] 


This  is  no  small  share  of  the  glory  of  the  whole 
bird  world. 

I  ought  not  to  name  redstart  as  a  regular  occu- 
pant of  the  orchard.  He  belongs  to  the  woods, 
and  must  be  reckoned  a  visitor  to  the  apple - 
trees,  only  an  occasional  builder,  at  best.  The 
orchard  is  too  open  for  him.  He  is  an  actor, 
and  needs  a  leafy  setting  for  his  stage.  In  the 
woods,  against  a  dense  background  of  green,  he 
can  play  butterfly  with  charming  effect,  can 
spread  himself  and  flit  about  like  an  autumn 
leaf  or  some  wandering  bit  of  paradise  life, 
with  wings  of  the  grove's  richest  orange  light 
and  its  deepest  shadow. 

When,  however,  he  has  a  fancy  for  the  or- 
chard, this  dainty  little  warbler  shows  us  what 
the  wood-birds  can  do  in  the  way  of  friendship 
and  sociability. 

Across  the  road,  in  an  apple-tree  whose 
branches  overhang  a  kitchen  roof,  built  a  pair 
of  redstarts.  No  one  discovered  the  birds  till 
the  young  came ;  then  both  parents  were  seen 
about  the  yard  the  whole  day  long.  They  were 
as  much  at  home  as  the  chickens,  even  more 
familiar.  Having  a  leisure  moment  one  day, 
[139] 


11  Across  the  road,  in  an 
apple-tree,  built  a  pair 
of  redstarts." 


when  a  bicycle  was  being  cleaned  beneath  the 
tree,  the  inquisitive  pair  dropped  down,  the 
female  actually  lighting  upon  the  handle-bar  to 
see  how  the  dusting  was  done.  On  another  oc- 
casion she  attempted  to  settle  upon  the  baby 
swinging  under  the  tree  in  a  hammock ;  and 
again,  when  I  caught  one  of  her  own  babies  in 
[140] 


my  hands,  she  came,  bringing  a  worm,  and, 
without  the  slightest  fear  of  me,  tried  to  feed 
it.  Yet  she  was  somewhat  daunted  by  the  trap 
in  which  her  infant  was  struggling ;  she  would 
fan  my  hands  with  her  wings,  then  withdraw, 
not  able  to  muster  quite  enough  courage  to 
settle  upon  them. 

Neither  of  these  birds  ever  showed  alarm  at 
the  people  of  the  house.  In  fact,  I  never  saw 
a  redstart  who  seemed  to  know  that  we  humans 
ought  to  be  dreaded.  These  birds  are  now  as 
innocent  of  suspicion  as  when  they  came  up  to 
Adam  to  be  named.  On  two  occasions,  during 
severe  summer  storms,  they  have  fluttered  at 
my  windows  for  shelter,  and  dried  their  feathers, 
as  any  way-worn  traveler  might,  in  safety  be- 
neath my  roof. 

From  the  window  one  morning  I  saw  Che- 
bec,  the  least  flycatcher,  light  upon  the  clothes- 
line. She  teetered  a  moment,  balancing  her 
big  head  by  her  loosely  jointed  tail,  then  leaped 
lightly  into  the  air,  turned, — as  only  a  flycatcher 
can, —  and,  diving  close  to  the  ground,  gathered 
half  the  gray  hairs  of  a  dandelion  into  her 
beak,  and  darted  off.  I  followed  instantly,  and 
[141] 


soon  found  her  nest  in  one  of  the  orchard  trees. 
It  was  not  quite  finished ;  and  while  the  bird 
was  gone  for  more  of  the  dandelion  down,  I 
climbed  up  and  seated  myself  within  three  feet 
of  the  nest. 

Back  came  Mrs.  Chebec  with  a  swoop,  but, 
on  seeing  me,  halted  short  of  the  nest.  I  was 
motionless.  Hopping  cautiously  toward  the 
nest,  she  took  an  anxious  look  inside ;  finding 
nothing  disturbed,  she  concluded  that  there  was 
no  evil  in  me,  and  so  went  on  with  her  interest- 
ing work.  It  was  a  pretty  sight.  In  a  quiet, 
capable,  womanly  way  she  laid  the  lining  in, 
making  the  nest,  in  her  infinite  mother-love,  fit 
for  eggs  with  shells  of  foam. 

The  chebec  is  a  finished  architect.  Better 
builders  are  few  indeed.  The  humming-bird  is 
slower,  more  painstaking,  and  excels  Chebec  in 
outside  finish.  But  Chebec's  nest  is  so  deep,  so 
soft,  so  round  and  hollow  !  There  is  the  loveli- 
ness of  pure  curve  in  its  walls.  And  small  won- 
der !  She  bends  them  about  the  beautiful  mold 
of  her  own  breast.  Whenever  she  entered  with 
the  dandelion  cotton,  she  went  round  and  round 
these  walls,  before  leaving,  pressing  them  fondly 
[142] 


with  her  chin  close  against  her  breast.  She 
could  not  make  them  sufficiently  safe  nor  half 
lovely  enough  for  the  white,  fragile  treasures  to 
be  cradled  there. 

Artists  though  they  be,  the  chebecs,  never- 
theless, are  very  tiresome  birds.  They  think 
that  they  can  sing— a  sad,  sorry,  maddening 
mistake.  Mr.  Chapman  says  the  day  that  song 
was  distributed  among  the  birds  the  chebecs  sat 
on  a  back  seat.  Would  they  had  been  out 


"  Gathered  half  the  gray  hairs  of  a  dandelion  into  her  beak." 

catching  flies !      In  the  chatter  of  the  English 

sparrow,  no  matter  how  much  I  may  resent  his 

[143] 


impudence  and  swagger,  there  is  something  so 
bright  and  lively  that  I  never  find  him  really 
tiresome.  But  the  chebecs  come  back  very 
early  in  spring,  and  sit  around  for  days  and 
days,  catching  flies,  and  jerking  their  heads  and 
calling,  Chebec!  chebec!  chebec!  till  you  wish  their 
heads  would  snap  off. 

In  the  tree  next  to  the  chebec's  was  a  brood 
of  robins.  The  crude  nest  was  wedged  care- 
lessly into  the  lowest  fork  of  the  tree,  so  that 
the  cats  and  roving  boys  could  help  themselves 
without  trouble.  The  mother  sputtered  and 
worried  and  scolded  without  let-up,  trying  to 
make  good  her  foolishness  in  fixing  upon  such  a 
site  by  abundance  of  anxiety  and  noise. 

The  fussiest,  least  sensible  mother  among 
the  birds  is  the  robin.  Any  place  for  her  nest 
but  a  safe  one  !  The  number  of  young  robins 
annually  sacrificed  to  pure  parental  careless- 
ness is  appalling.  The  female  chooses  the 
site  for  the  home,  and  her  ability  for  blunder- 
ing upon  unattractive  and  exposed  locations 
amounts  to  genius.  She  insists  upon  building 
on  the  sand.  Usually  the  rain  descends,  the 
floods  come,  the  winds  blow,  and  there  is  a  fall. 
[144] 


"  In  the  tree  next  to  the  chebec's  was  a  brood  of  robins.  The  crude 
nest  was  wedged  carelessly  into  the  lowest  fork  of  the  tree,  so  that 
the  cats  and  roving  boys  could  help  themselves  without  trouble." 


10 


Here  is  a  pair  building  upon  a  pile  of  boards 
under  a  cherry-tree  ;  another  pair  plaster  their 
nest  to  the  rider  of  an  old  worm-fence  ;  while  a 
third  couple,  abandoning  the  woods  near  by, 
plant  theirs,  against  all  remonstrance,  upon 
the  top  of  a  step-ladder  that  the  brickmakers 
use  daily  in  their  drying-sheds. 

It  was  the  superlative  stupidity  of  this  robin 
that  saved  her  family.  The  workmen  at  first 
knocked  her  nest  off  to  the  ground.  She  had 
plenty  of  clay  at  hand,  however,  and  began  her 
nest  again,  following  the  ladder  as  it  moved 
about  the  shed.  Such  amazing  persistence  won, 
of  coursel  Out  of  wonder,  finally,  the  men  gave 
the  ladder  over  to  her  and  stood  aside  till  her 
family  affairs  were  attended  to.  Everything 
was  right  in  time.  After  infinite  scolding,  she 
at  last  came  off  in  triumph,  with  her  brood  of 
four. 

A  striking  illustration  of  this  growing  alliance 
between  us  and  the  birds  is  the  nest  of  the  great- 
crested  flycatcher  in  the  orchard.  Great- crest 
has  almost  become  an  orchard-bird.  At  heart 
he  is,  and  ever  will  be,  a  bird  of  the  wilds.  He 
is  not  tame— does  not  want  to  be  tame ;  he  is 
[146] 


bold,  and  the  dangers  and  advantages  of  orchard 
life  attract  him.  His  moving  into  an  apple 
orchard  is  no  less  a  wonder  than  would  be  an 
Apache  chiefs  settling  in  New  York  or  Boston. 

Most  observers  still  count  Great-crest  among* 
the  wild  and  unreclaimed.  Florence  A.  Mer- 
riam,  speaking  of  his  return  in  spring,  says  : 
"Not  many  days  pass,  however,  before  he  is  so 
taken  up  with  domestic  matters  that  his  voice 
is  rarely  heard  outside  the  woods" ;  and  in 
Stearns's  "Birds"  I  find  :  "It  does  not  court  the 
society  of  man,  but  prefers  to  keep  aloof  in  the 
depths  of  the  forest,  where  it  leads  a  wild,  shy? 
and  solitary  life.7'  This  is  not  Great-crest  as  I 
know  him.  I  have  found  many  of  his  nests, 
and  never  one  in  any  but  orchard  trees.  Riding 
along  a  country  road  lately,  I  heard  Great- 
crest's  call  far  ahead  of  me.  I  soon  spied 
him  on  the  wires  of  a  telegraph-pole.  Under 
him  was  a  pear-tree,  and  a  hundred  yards  away 
a  farm-house.  In  the  pear-tree  I  found  his 
nest— snake-skins  and  all. 

I  disagree,  too,  with  most  descriptions  of  this 
bird's  cry.  The  authors  I  have  read  seem  never 
to  have  heard  him  on  a  quiet  May  morning 
[147] 


"  I  soon  spied  him  on  the 
wires  of  a  telegraph-pole." 


across  a  /fifty -acre  field.  His  voice  is  "  harsh 
and  discordant"  when  sounded  into  one's  very 
ears.  The  sweetest-toned  organ  would  be  dis- 
cordant to  one  inside  the  instrument.  Give  the 
bird  the  room  he  demands,  —  wide,  early-morn- 
ing fields, — and  listen.  A  single  shout,  almost 
human  it  seems,  wild,  weird,  and  penetrating, 
yet  clear  and  smooth  as  the  blast  of  a  bugle. 
One  Can  never  forget  it,  nor  resist  it ;  for  it 
thrills  like  a  resurrection  call— the  last,  long 
summons  to  the  spring  waking.  This  solitary 
note  is  often  repeated,  but  is  never  so  rapid 
nor  so  long  drawn  out  as  the  call  of  the  flicker. 
[148] 


Great- crest  is  a  character,  one  of  the  most 
individual  of  all  our  birds.  What  other  bird 
lines  his  nest  with  snake-skins?  or  hangs  such 
gruesome  things  out  for  latch-strings?  He  has 
taken  up  his  residence  among  us,  but  he  has 
given  us  pretty  plainly  to  understand  that  we 
need  not  call,  else  I  mistake  the  hint  in  the 
scaly  skin  that  dangles  from  his  door.  The 
strong  personality  of  the  bird  is  stamped  even 
upon  its  eggs.  Where  are  any  to  match  them 
for  curious,  crazy  coloring?  The  artist  had 
purple  inks,  shading  all  the  way  from  the  deep- 
est chestnut- purple  to  the  faintest  lilac.  With 
a  sharp  pen  he  scratched  the  shell  from  end  to 
end  with  all  his  colors  till  it  was  covered,  then 
finished  it  off  with  a  few  wild  flourishes  and 
crosswise  scrawls. 

Like  the  birds  of  the  orchards  and  buildings, 
the  field-birds  also  are  yielding  to  human  influ- 
ences. We  can  almost  say  that  we  have  an 
order  of  farm-birds,  so  many  species  seem  to 
have  become  entirely  dependent  upon  the  pas- 
ture and  grain-field. 

"  Where  did  Bobolink  disport  himself  before 
there  were  meadows  in  the  North  and  rice- 
[149] 


fields  in  the  South?  Was  he  the  same  lithe, 
merry-hearted  beau  then  as  now?"  I  do  not 
know.  But  I  do  know  that,  in  the  thirty  and 
three  years  since  Mr.  Burroughs  asked  the  ques- 
tion, Bobolink  has  lost  none  of  his  nimbleness, 
nor  forgotten  one  bubbling,  tinkling  note  of  his 
song.  Yet  in  his  autumn  journey  South,  from 
the  day  he  reaches  the  ripe  reeds  of  the  Jersey 
marshes  till  he  is  lost  in  the  wide  rice-lands  of 
Georgia,  his  passage  is  through  a  ceaseless,  piti- 
less storm  of  lead.  Dare  he  return  to  us  in 
spring?  and  can  he  ever  sing  again?  He  will 
come  if  May  comes— forgetting  and  forgiving, 
dressed  in  as  gay  a  suit  as  ever,  and  just  as  full 
of  song.  , 

There  is  no  marvel  of  nature's  making  equal 
to  the  miracle  of  her  temper  toward  man.  How 
gladly  she  yields  to  his  masterful  dominion ! 
How  sufferingly  she  waits  for  him  to  grow  out 
of  his  spoiled,  vicious  childhood.  The  spirit  of 
the  bobolink  ought  to  exorcise  the  savage  out 
of  us.  It  ought,  and  it  does— slowly. 

We  are  trying,  for  instance,  to  cow  the  savage 
in  us  by  law,  to  restrain  it  while  the  birds  are 
breeding ;  but  we  hardly  succeed  yet.  The 
[150] 


mating  season  is  scarcely  over,  the  young  not 
yet  grown,  when  the  gunners  about  me  go  into 
the  fields  with  their  dogs  and  locate  every  covey 
of  quail,  even  counting  the  number  of  birds  in 


"  He  will  come  if  May  comes." 

•each.  With  the  dawn  of  the  first  day  of  open 
season  they  are  out,  going  from  flock  to  flock, 
killing,  till  the  last  possible  bird  is  in  their 
bloody  bags. 

One  of  the  most  pathetic  of  all  the  wordless 
<?ries  of  the  out-of-doors  is  the  covey-call  of 
the  female  quail  at  night,  trying  to  gather  the 
scattered  flock  together  after  the  dogs  are  called 
off  and  the  hunters  have  gone  home. 
[151] 


It  was  nearly  dark  one  December  afternoon, 
the  snow  ankle-deep  and  falling  swiftly,  when, 
crossing  a  wide  field,  I  heard  this  call  from  a 
piece  of  sprout-land  ahead  of  me.  Kneeling 
in  the  snow,  I  answered  the  whistle.  Instantly 
came  a  reply.  Back  and  forth  we  signaled  till 
there  was  a  whir  of  wings,  and  down  in  the  soft 
snow  within  a  few  feet  of  me  dropped  the  lonely, 
frightened  quail.  She  was  the  only  one  left  of  a 
covey  that  the  night  before  had  roosted  un- 


'  Within  a  few  feet  of  me  dropped  the  lonely  frightened  quail." 

[152] 


broken,  snugly  wedged,  with  their  tails  together, 
under  a  pile  of  brush. 

Sharing  the.  fields  with  the  quails  are  the 
meadow-larks.  They  scale  along  the  grass, 
rarely  rising  higher  than  the  cedars,  flapping 
rapidly  for  a  short  distance,  then  sailing  a  little 
in  a  cautious,  breath-held  manner,  as  though 
wings  were  a  new  invention  and  just  a  trifle 
dangerous  yet.  On  they  go  to  a  fence-stake,  and 
land  with  many  congratulatory  flirts  of  wings 
and  tail.  Has  anybody  observed  the  feat? 
They  look  around.  Yes  ;  here  I  sit,— a  man  on  a 
fence  across  the  field,— and  the  lark  turns  toward 
me  and  calls  out :  "Did  you  see  me? " 

He  would  be  the  best-bred,  most  elegant  of 
our  birds,  were  it  not  for  his  self-consciousness. 
He  is  consumed  with  it.  There  is  too  much 
gold  and  jet  on  his  breast.  But,  in  spite  of  all 
this,  the  plain,  rich  back  and  wings,  the  slender 
legs,  the  long,  delicate  beak,  the  erect  carriage, 
the  important  air,  the  sleek,  refined  appearance, 
compel  us  to  put  him  down  an  aristocrat. 

In  a  closely  cropped  pasture  near  the  house, 
in  early  June,  I  found  the  eggs  of  the  night- 
hawk.  There  was  no  nest,  of  course :  the  eggs 
[153] 


' 


"  On  they  go  to  a  fence-stake." 


lay  upon  the  grass,  and,  for  safety,  had  been  left 
directly  under  the  fence.  The  cows  might  not 
step  on  them  here,  but  nothing  prevented  their 
crushing  the  fragile  things  with  their  noses. 

Lengthwise,  upon  one  of  the  rails,  slept  the 
mother.  She  zigzagged  off  at  my  approach,  daz- 
zled and  uncertain  in  the  white  light  of  the 
noon,  making  no  outcry  nor  stopping  an  instant 
to  watch  the  fate  of  her  eggs.  She  acted  like  a 
huge  bat,  slinking  and  dodging,  out  of  her  ele- 
ment in  the  light,  and  anxious  to  be  hid.  She 
did  not  seem  like  a  creature  that  had  a  voice ; 
[154] 


and  the  way  she  flew  would  make  one  think 
that  she  did  not  know  the  use  of  her  wings. 
But  what  a  circus  flier  she  is  at  night !  and  with 
what  an  uncanny  noise  she  haunts  the  twilight ! 
She  has  made  more  hair  stand  on  end,  with 
her  earthward  plunge  and  its  unearthly  boom 
through  the  dusk,  than  all  the  owls  together.  It 
is  a  ghostly  joke.  And  who  would  believe  in 
the  daylight  that  this  limp,  ragged  lump,  dozing 
upon  the  fence  or  the  kitchen  roof,  could  play 
the  spook  so  cleverly  in  the  dark  ! 


Ill 


ON  the  25th  of  April,  before  the  trees  were  in 
leaf,  I  heard  the  first  true  wood-note  of  the 
spring.  It  came  from  the  tall  oaks  beyond  the 
garden.  "Clear,  clear,  clear  up!"  it  rang,  pure, 
untamed,  and  quickening.  The  solitary  vireo  ! 
It  was  his  whistle,  inimitable,  unmistakable  ;  and 
though  I  had  not  seen  him  since  last  July,  I  hur- 
ried out  to  the  woods,  sure  he  would  greet  me. 

Solitary  is    the    largest,  rarest,  tamest,   and 
sweetest-voiced  of  the  vireos.     I  soon  found  him 
high  in  the  tops  of  the  trees  ;  but  I  wanted  him 
[155] 


nearer.  He  would  not  descend.  So  I  chased 
him,  stoning  and  mocking  him  even,  till,  at  last, 
he  came  down  to  the  bushes  and  showed  me  his 
big  blue  head,  white  eye-rings,  wing-bars,  and 
yellow- washed  sides. 

He  did  more  than  show  himself:  he  sang  for 
me.  Within  ten  feet  of  me,  he  began  a  quiet 
little  warble  of  a  tenderness  and  contentment  I 


\ 

"  It  was  a  love-song." 

never  heard  before.  Such  variety  of  notes,  such 
sweetness  of  melody,  such  easy,  unconscious  ren- 
dering !  It  was  a  love-song,  but  sung  all  to 
himself,  for  he  knew  that  there  was  no  gentle 
heart  to  listen  this  side  of  Virginia.  He  sang  to 
[156] 


his  own  happy  heart  as  pure  and  sweet  a  song 
as  the  very  angels  know. 

Solitary  disappeared  from  that  day.  I  con- 
cluded he  had  gone  to  heavier,  wilder  woods  to 
nest.  It  was  late  in  June  that,  passing  through 
this  brush-land,  I  saw  hanging  from  an  oak  sap- 
ling, just  above  my  head,  a  soft,  yellowish  basket. 
It  was  a  vireo's  nest ;  but  it  was  too  large,  too 
downy,  too  yellow  for  Red-eye.  There  were  no 
bunches  of  white  spider-webs  upon  it,  such  as 
Eed-eye  hangs  all  over  his  nest.  I  stepped  aside 
for  a  better  view,  and  had  just  caught  the  glint 
of  a  large,  white-ringed  eye  peering  over  the 
nest's  edge  at  me,  when,  off  in  the  woods  behind 
me,  the  noon  hush  was  startled  by  Solitary's 
whistle— a  round,  pure,  pearly  note  that  broke 
the  quiet  as  pearly  teeth  break  through  the  smile 
of  a  beautiful  face.  He  soon  appeared,  coming 
on,  a  tree  at  a  time,  looking  and  asking,  in  no 
hurry  and  in  no  alarm.  When  he  reached  the 
pine  overhead,  his  mate  left  the  nest  to  confer 
with  him.  They  scolded  me  mildly  while  I 
climbed  for  a  look  at  the  four  delicately  spotted 
eggs  ;  but  as  soon  as  I  lay  down  upon  the  ground, 
the  mother,  without  fuss  or  fear,  slipped  into  the 
[157] 


nest  and  cuddled  down  over  the  eggs  till  her 
head  hardly  showed  above  the  rim.  Had  a  few 
bushes  been  removed  I  could  have  seen  the  nest 
from  my  front  door. 

Why  do  the  wood-birds  so  persistently  build 
their  nests  along  the  paths  and  roads?  I  said 
that  even  the  hermit-thrush  prefers  a  wood  with 
a  road  through  it.  If  he  possibly  can  he  will 
build  along  that  road.  And  what  one  of  the 
birds  will  not  ?  Is  it  mere  stupidity  !  Is  it  curi- 
osity to  see  what  goes  on  ?  Is  there  some  safety 
here  from  enemies  worse  than  boys  and  cats  and 
dogs?  Or  is  it  that  these  birds  take  this  chance 
for  humaA  fellowship  I  If  this  last  is  the  reason 
for  their  rejecting  the  deep  tangles  for  limbs  that 
overhang  roads  and  tufts  of  grass  in  constantly 
traveled  foot-paths,  then  they  can  be  pardoned ; 
otherwise  they  are  foolish— fatally  foolish. 

The  first  black-and-white  warbler's  nest  I  ever 
found  was  at  the  base  of  a  clump  of  bushes  in  a 
narrow  wood-path  not  ten  feet  from  a  highway. 
There  were  acres  of  bushes  beyond,  thick  and 
pathless,  all  theirs  to  choose  from. 

In  the  same  piece  of  scrub-oak  the  summer 
after  I  found  another  black-and-white  warbler's 
[158] 


nest.  The  loud  talk  of  three  of  the  birds  at- 
tracted me.  Two  of  them  were  together,  and 
just  mated,  evidently  ;  the  third  was  a  male,  and 
just  as  plainly  the  luckless  suitor.  He  was 
trying  to  start  a  quarrel  between  the  young 
couple,  doing  his  best  to  make  the  new  bride 
break  her  vows.  He  flew  just  ahead  of  them, 
darting  to  the  ground,  scuttling  under  the  brush, 
and  calling  out,  "  See  here  !  Come  here  !  Don't 
fool  with  him  any  longer !  I  have  the  place 
for  a  nest !  " 

But  the  pair  kept  on  together,  chatting 
brightly  as  they  ran  up  and  down  the  trees  and 
hunted  under  the  fallen  limbs  and  leaves  for  a 
home-site.  The  male  led  the  way  and  found  the 
places  ;  the  female  passed  judgment.  I  followed 
them. 

Every  spot  the  cock  peeped  into  was  the  finest 
in  the  woods ;  his  enthusiasm  was  constant  and 
unbounded.  "Any  place  is  heaven,"  he  kept 
repeating,  "any  place,  so  long  as  I  have  you." 
But  she  was  to  do  the  housekeeping,  and  the 
ecstasies  of  the  honeymoon  were  not  to  turn  her 
head.  She  was  house-hunting ;  and,  like  every 
woman,  at  her  best.  She  said  "no,"  and  "no," 
[159] 


and  "no."  I  began  to  think  they  never  would 
find  the  place,  when  the  male  darted  far  ahead 
and  went  out  of  sight  beneath  some  low  huckle- 
berry-bushes near  a  stone  wall.  This  wall  ran 
between  the  woods  and  a  pasture ;  and  parallel 
with  it,  on  the  woods  side,  was  a  foot-path. 

Up  came  the  little  hen,  and  together  they 
scratched  about  under  the  leaves.  Suddenly  the 
cock  flew  away  and  fetched  a  strip  of  chestnut 
bark.  This  he  turned  over  to  his  wife.  Then 
both  birds  flew  out  to  the  chestnut  limbs  for 
bark,  and  brought  their  strips  back.  The  home 
was  founded. 

It  was  the  merest  cavity,  pushed  into  the  dead 
leaves,  with  three  shreds  of  bark  for  first  timbers. 
In  less  than  a  week  the  structure  was  finished 
and  furnished— with  a  tiny  white  egg  thickly 
sprinkled  with  brown.  I  watched  the  spot  daily, 
and  finally  saw  the  four  young  warblers  safely 
out  into  their  new  woods- world.  But  from  the 
day  the  first  egg  was  laid  until  the  nestlings  left 
I  constantly  expected  to  find  everything  crushed 
under  the  foot  of  some  passer-by. 

When  free  from  household  cares  the  chickadee 
is  the  most  sociable  of  the  birds  of  the  woods. 
[160] 


1  I 


11 


"  But  the  pair  kept  on  to- 
gether, chatting  brightly." 


But  he  takes  family  matters  seriously,  and  with- 
draws so  quietly  to  the  unfrequented  parts  of  the 
woods  during  nesting- time  as  to  seem  to  have 
migrated.  Yet  of  the  four  chickadees'  nests 
found  about  the  house,  one  was  in  a  dead  yellow 
birch  in  a  bit  of  deep  swamp,  two  others  were  in 
yellow  birches  along  wood-roads,  and  the  fourth 
was  in  a  rotten  fence-post  by  the  main  road,  a 
long  way  from  any  trees. 

A  workman  while  mending  the  fence  discov- 
ered this  last  nest.  The  post  crumbled  in  his 
hands  as  he  tried  to  pull  it  down,  revealing  the 
nest  of  moss  and  rabbit  hair,  with  its  five  brown- 
and-white  eggs.  He  left  the  old  post,  propped 
it  up  with  a  sound  one,  and,  mending  the  broken 
walls  of  the  cavity  the  best  he  could,  hurried 
along  with  his  task,  that  the  birds  might  return. 
They  came  back,  found  the  wreckage  of  dust  and 
chips  covering  the  eggs,  tried  the  flimsy  walls — 
and  went  away.  It  was  a  desecrated  home,  nei- 
ther safe  nor  beautiful  now  ;  so  they  forsook  it. 

There  is  no  eagle's  nest  in  this  collection  of 

thirty-six.      But  if  Mr.   Burroughs   is   correct, 

there  is  the  next  thing  to  it— a  humming-bird's 

nest ;   three  of  them,  indeed,  one  of  which  is 

[162] 


within  a  stone's  throw 
of  my  door  !  This  one 
is  in  the  oaks  behind 
my  garden,  but  the 
other  two  are  even 
nearer  to  houses.  One 
of  these  is  upon  the 
limb  of  a  pear-tree. 
The  tip  of  this  limb 
rubs  against  a  wood- 
shed connected  with 
a  dwelling.  The  third 
nest  is  in  a  large  ap- 
ple orchard,  in  the 
tree  nearest  the  house, 
and  saddled  upon  that 
branch  of  the  tree 
which  reaches  farthest 
toward  the  dwelling. 
So  close  is  this  nest 
that  I  can  look  out  of 
the  garret  window 
directly  into  it. 

I  believe  that  Ru- 
by-throat is  so  far  do- 


In  a  dead  yellow  birch." 


[163] 


"So  close  I  can  look  directly  into  it." 

mesticate^  that  he  rejoices  over  every  new  flower- 
garden.  There  was  nearly  half  an  acre  of  gladi- 
oli in  the  neighborhood  one  summer,  where  all 
the  humming-birds  gathered  from  far  and  near. 
Here,  for  the  only  time  in  my  life,  I  saw  a  flock 
of  humming-birds.  I  counted  eight  one  day ; 
and  the  gardener  told  me  that  he  had  often  seen 
a  dozen  of  them  among  the  spikes.  They 
squeaked  like  bats,  and  played— about  as  bullets 
might  play.  In  fact,  I  think  I  dodged  when  they 
whizzed  past  me,  as  a  soldier  does  the  first  time 
he  is  under  fire. 

One  of  my  friends  had  a  cellar  window  abloom 
[164] 


with  geraniums.  A  ruby-throat  came  often  to 
this  window.  One  day  the  mistress  of  the  flowers 
caught  the  wee  chap  in  her  hands.  He  knew  at 
once  that  she  meant  no  harm  and  quietly  sub- 
mitted. A  few  days  later  he  returned  and  was 
captured  again.  He  liked  the  honey,  and  evi- 
dently the  fondling,  too,  for  he  came  very  regu- 
larly after  that  for  the  nectar  and  the  lady's 
soft  hands. 

The  nest  behind  my  garden  is  in  the  top  of  a 
tall,  slender  maple,  with  oaks  and  chestnuts  sur- 
rounding and  overshadowing  it.  Finding  a  nest 
like  this  is  inspiration  for  the  rest  of  life.  The 
only  feat  comparable  to  it  is  the  discovery  of  a 
bee-tree.  Finding  wild  bees,  I  think,  would  be 
good  training  for  one  intending  to  hunt  humming- 
birds' nests  in  the  woods.  But  no  one  ever  had 
such  an  intention.  No  one  ever  deliberately 
started  into  the  woods  a-saying,  "Go  to,  now  ;  I  '11 
find  a  humming-bird's  nest  in  here  !  " 

Humming-birds'  nests  are  the  gifts  of  the  gods 
—rewards  for  patience  and  for  gratitude  because 
of  commoner  grants.  My  nests  have  invariably 
come  this  way,  or,  if  you  choose,  by  accident. 
The  nearest  I  ever  came  to  earning  one  was  in 
[165] 


the  case  of  this  one  in  the  maple.  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  humming-bird  flashing  around  the 
high  limbs  of  a  chestnut,  so  far  up  that  she  looked 
no  bigger  than  a  hornet.  I  suspected  instantly 
that  she  was  gathering  lichens  for  a  nest,  and,  as 
she  darted  off,  I  threw  my  eyes  ahead  of  her 
across  her  path.  It  was  just  one  chance  in  ten 
thousand  if  I  even  saw  her  speeding  through  the 
limbs  and  leaves,  if  I  got  the  line  of  her  flight, 
to  say  nothing  of  a  clue  to  her  nesting-place.  It 
was  little  short  of  a  miracle.  I  had  tried  many 
times  before  to  do  it,  but  this  is  the  only  time  I 
ever  succeeded :  my  line  of  vision  fell  directly 
upon  the  tiny  builder  as  she  dropped  to  her  nest 
in  the  sapling. 

The  structure  was  barely  started.  I  might 
have  stared  at  it  with  the  strongest  glass  and 
never  made  it  out  a  nest ;  the  sapling,  too,  was 
no  thicker  at  the  butt  than  my  wrist,  and  I 
should  not  have  dreamed  of  looking  into  its  tall, 
spindling  top  for  any  kind  of  a  nest.  Further- 
more, as  if  to  rob  one  of  the  last  possibility  of 
discovering  it,  a  stray  bud,  two  years  before,  had 
pushed  through  the  bark  of  the  limb  about  three 
inches  behind  where  the  nest  was  to  be  fixed,  and 
[166] 


had  grown,  till  now  its  leaves  hung  over  the 
dainty  house  in  an  almost  perfect  canopy  and 
screen. 

For  three  weeks  the  walls  of  this  house  were 
going  up.  Is  it  astonishing  that,  when  finished, 
they  looked  like  a  growth  of  the  limb,  like  part 
and  parcel  of  the  very  tree?  I  made  a  daily 
visit  to  the  sapling  until  the  young  birds  flew 
away ;  then  I  bent  the  tree  to  the  ground  and 
brought  the  nest  home.  It  now  hangs  above  my 
desk,  its  thick  walls,  its  downy  bed,  its  leafy 
canopy  telling  still  of  the  little  mother's  un- 
wearied industry,  of  her  infinite  love  and  fore- 
sight. So  faultlessly  formed,  so  safely  saddled  to 
the  limb,  so  exquisitely  lichened  into  harmony 
with  the  green  around,  this  tiniest  nest  speaks 
for  all  of  the  birds.  How  needless,  how  sorry, 
would  be  the  loss  of  these  beautiful  neighbors  of 
our  copses  and  fields  ! 


[167] 


MUS'RATTIN' 


:  Uncle  Jethi-o  limbered  his  stiffened  knees  and 
went  chuckling  down  the  bank." 


"MUS'RATTIN" 

ONE  November  afternoon  I  found  Uncle 
Jethro  back  of  the  woodshed,  drawing  a 
chalk-niark  along  the  barrel  of  his  old  musket, 
from  the  hammer  to  the  sight, 

"What  are  you  doing  that  for,  Uncle  Jeth?  " 
I  asked. 

"  What  fo'  ?     Fo'  mus'rats,  boy." 

"Muskrats  !  Do  you  think  they  '11  walk  up 
and  toe  that  mark,  while  you  knock  'em  over 
with  a  stick?  " 

"G'way  fum  yhere !  What  I  take  yo'  pos- 
sumin'  des  dozen  winters  fo',  en  yo'  dunno 
how  to  sight  a  gun  in  de  moon  yit  ?  I 's  gwine 
mus'rattin'  by  de  moon  to-night,  en  I  won't 
take  yo'  nohow." 

Of  course  he  took  me.  We  went  out  about 
nine  o'clock,  and  entering  the  zigzag  lane  be- 
hind the  barn,  followed  the  cow-paths  down  to 
the  pasture,  then  cut  across  the  fields  to  Lup- 
[171] 


ton's  Pond,  the  little  wood-walled  lake  which 
falls  over  a  dam  into  the  wide  meadows  along 
Cohansey  Creek. 

It  is  a  wild,  secluded  spot,  so  removed  that  a 
pair  of  black  ducks  built  their  nest  for  several 
springs  in  the  deep  moss  about  the  upper  shore. 

It  is  shallow  and  deeply  crusted  over  with 
lily-pads  and  pickerel-weed,  except  for  a  small 
area  about  the  dam,  where  the  water  is  deep 
and  clear.  There  are  many  stumps  in  the 
upper  end ;  and  here,  in  the  shallows,  built 
upon  the  hummocks  or  anchored  to  the  sub- 
merged roots,  are  the  muskrats'  houses. 

The  big  moon  was  rising  over  the  meadows 
as  we  tucked  ourselves  snugly  out  of  sight  in  a 
clump  of  small  cedars  on  the  bank,  within  easy 
range  of  the  dam  and  commanding  a  view  of 
the  whole  pond.  The  domed  houses  of  the 
muskrats— the  village  numbered  six  homes— 
showed  plainly  as  the  moon  came  up ;  and 
when  the  full  flood  of  light  fell  on  the  still  sur- 
face of  the  pond,  we  could  see  the  " roads"  of 
the  muskrats,  like  narrow  channels,  leading 
down  through  the  pads  to  the  open  space  about 
the  dam. 

[172] 


"  The  big  inoori  was  rising  over  the  meadows." 

A  muskrat's  domestic  life  is  erratic.  Some- 
times there  will  be  a  large  village  iii  the  pond, 
and,  again,  an  autumn  will  pass  without  a 
single  new  house  being  built.  It  may  be 
that  some  of  the  old  houses  will  be  fitted  up 
anew  and  occupied ;  but  I  have  known  years 
when  there  was  not  a  house  in  the  pond.  At 
no  time  do  all  of  the  muskrats  build  winter 
houses.  The  walls  of  the  meadow  ditches  just 
[173] 


under  the  dam  are  honeycombed  with  subter- 
ranean passages,  in  which  many  of  the  musk- 
rats  live  the  year  round.  Neither  food  nor 
weather,  so  far  as  I  have  found,  influence  them 
at  all  in  the  choice  of  their  winter  quarters. 
In  low,  wet  meadows  where  there  are  no 


Section  of  muskrat's  house. 

ditches,  the  muskrats,  of  course,  live  altogether 
in  mud  and  reed  houses  above  ground,  for  the 
water  would  flood  the  ordinary  burrow.  These 
structures  are  placed  on  the  tussocks  along  a 
water-hole,  so  that  the  dwellers  can  dive  out 
and  escape  under  water  when  danger  ap- 
proaches. But  here  in  the  tide-meadows, 
where  the  ditches  are  deep,  the  muskrats  rear 
their  families  almost  wholly  in  underground 
[174] 


rooms.  It  is  only  when  winter  comes,  and 
family  ties  dissolve,  that  a  few  of  the  more 
sociable  or  more  adventurous  club  together, 
come  up  to  the  pond,  and  while  away  the  cold 
weather  in  these  haystack  lodges. 

These  houses  are  very  simple,  but  entirely 
adequate.  If  you  will  lift  the  top  off  an  ordi- 
nary meadow  lodge  you  will  find  a  single  room, 
with  a  bed  in  the  middle,  and  at  least  one  en- 
trance and  one  exit  which  are  always  closed  to 
outsiders  by  water. 

The  meadow  lodge  is  built  thus  :  The  musk- 
rat  first  chooses  a  large  tussock  of  sedge  that 
stands  well  out  of  the  water  for  his  bedstead. 
Now,  from  a  foundation  below  the  water,  thick 
walls  of  mud  and  grass  are  erected  inclosing 
the  tussock ;  a  thatch  of  excessive  thickness  is 
piled  on ;  the  channels  leading  away  from  the 
doors  are  dug  out  if  necessary ;  a  bunch  of 
soaking  grass  is  brought  in  and  made  into  a 
bed  on  the  tussock— and  the  muskrat  takes 
possession. 

The  pond  lodges  at  the  head  of  Lupton's  are 
made  after  this  fashion,  only  they  are  much 
larger,  and  instead  of  being  raised  about  a  tus- 
[175] 


sock  of  sedge,  they  are  built  upon,  and  inclose, 
a  part  of  a  log  or  stump. 

This  lodge  life  is  surely  a  cozy,  jolly  way  of 
passing  the  winter.  The  possums  are  inclined 
to  club  together  whenever  they  can  find  stumps 
that  are  roomy  enough;  but  the  miiskrats 
habitually  live  together  through  the  winter. 
Here,  in  the  single  room  of  their  house,  one 
after  another  will  come,  until  the  walls  can  hold 
no  more ;  and,  curling  up  after  their  night  of 
foraging,  they  will  spend  the  frigid  days  bliss- 
fully rolled  into  one  warm  ball  of  dreamful 
sleep.  ]fjet  it  blow  and  snow  and  freeze  out- 
side ;  there  are  six  inches  of  mud-and-reed  wall 
around  them,  and,  wrapped  deep  in  rich,  warm 
fur,  they  hear  nothing  of  the  blizzard  and  care 
nothing  for  the  cold. 

Nor  are  they  prisoners  of  the  cold  here.  The 
snow  has  drifted  over  their  house  till  only  a 
tiny  mound  appears;  the  ice  has  sealed  the 
pond  and  locked  their  home  against  the  storm 
and  desolation  without :  but  the  main  roadway 
from  the  house  is  below  the  drifting  snow,  and 
they  know  where,  among  the  stumps  and  but- 
ton-bushes, the  warm -nosed  watchers  have  kept 
[176] 


breathing-holes  open.  The  ice-maker  never 
finds  their  inner  stair ;  its  secret  door  opens 
into  deep,  uuder-water  paths,  which  run  all 
over  the  bottom  of  the  unfrozen  pond- world. 


"  The  snow  has  drifted  over  their  house  till  only 
a  tiny  uiound  appears." 

Unless  roused  by  the  sharp  thrust  of  a  spear, 
the  muskrats  will  sleep  till  nightfall.  You 
may  skate  around  the  lodge  and  even  sit  down 
upon  it  without  waking  the  sleepers  ;  but  plunge 
your  polo-stick  through  the  top,  and  you  will 

12  M77T 


hear  a  smothered  plunk,  plunk,  plunk,  as  one 
after  another  dives  out  of  bed  into  the  water 
below. 

The  moon  climbed  higher  up  the  sky  and  the 
minutes  ran  on  to  ten  o'clock.  We  waited. 
The  night  was  calm  and  still,  and  the  keen, 
alert  air  brought  every  movement  of  the  wild 
life  about  us  to  our  ears.  The  soft,  cottony 
footfalls  of  a  rabbit,  hopping  leisurely  down  the 
moonlit  path,  seemed  not  unlike  the  echoing 
steps  on  silent,  sleeping  streets,  as  some  traveler 
passes  beneath  your  window ;  a  wedge  of  wild 
geese  hqriked  far  over  our  heads,  holding  their 
mysterious  way  to  the  South  ;  white -footed  mice 
scurried  among  the  dried  leaves ;  and  our  ears 
were  so  sharpened  by  the  frosty  air  that  we 
caught  their  thin,  wiry  squeaks. 

Presently  there  was  a  faint  plash  among  the 
muskrat  houses.  The  village  was  waking  up. 
Uncle  Jethro  poked  the  long  nose  of  his  gun 
cautiously  through  the  bushes,  and  watched. 
Soon  there  was  a  wake  in  one  of  the  silvery 
roads,  then  a  parting  of  waves,  and  stemming 
silently  and  evenly  toward  us,  we  saw  the 
round,  black  head  of  a  muskrat. 
[178] 


It  was  a  pretty  sight  and  a  pretty  shot ;  but 
I  would  not  have  had  the  stillness  and  the 
moonlit  picture  spoiled  by  the  blare  of  that 
murderous  musket  for  the  pelts  of  fifty  musk- 
rats,  and  as  the  gun  was  coming  to  Uncle 
Jethro's  shoulder,  I  slipped  my  hand  under  the 
lifted  hammer. 

With  just  an  audible  grunt  of  impatience  the 
old  negro  understood,— it  was  not  the  first  good 
shot  that  my  love  of  wild  things  had  spoiled  for 
him,— and  the  unsuspecting  muskrat  swam  on  to 
the  dam. 

A  plank  had  drifted  against  the  bank,  and 
upon  this  the  little  creature  scrambled  out,  as 
dry    as   the   cat   at    home   under   the    roaring 
kitchen   stove.     Down    another 
road  came  a  second  muskrat, 
and,    swimming    across    the 
open  water  at  the  dam, 
joined    the    first-comer 
on    the    plank.       They 
rubbed  noses  softly— the 

c,       ,,          .,  -,  "They  rubbed 

sweetest   of  all  wild-animal   greetings— and   a    noses." 
moment    afterward    began    to    play   together. 
They  were  out  for  a  frolic,  and  the  night  was 
[179] 


Two  little  brown  creatures  washing  calamus.' 


splendid.  Keeping  one  eye  open  for  owls,  they 
threw  off  all  other  caution,  and  swam  and  dived 
and  chased  each  other  through  the  water,  with 
all  the  fun  of  boys  in  swimming. 

On  the  bottom  of  the  pond  about  the  dam,  in 
ten  or  twelve  feet  of  water,  was  a  bed  of  unios. 
I  knew  that  they  were  there,  for  I  had  cut  my 
feet  upon  them ;  and  the  muskrats  knew  they 
were  there,  for  they  had  had  many  a  moonlight 
lunch  of  them.  These  mussels  the  muskrats 
reckon  sweetmeats.  They  are  hard  to  get, 
hard  to  crack,  but  worth  all  the  cost.  I  was 
not  surprised,  then,  when  one  of  the  muskrats 
sleekly  disappeared  beneath  the  surface,  and 
came  up  directly  with  a  mussel. 

There  was  a  squabble  on  the  plank,  which 
ended  in  the  other  muskrat's  diving  for  a  mus- 
sel for  himself.  How  they  opened  them  I  could 
not  clearly  make  out,  for  the  shells  were  almost 
concealed  in  their  paws ;  but  judging  from 
their  actions  and  the  appearance  of  other  shells 
which  they  had  opened,  I  should  say  that  they 
first  gnawed  through  the  big  hinge  at  the  back, 
then  pried  open  the  valves,  and  ate  out  the 
contents. 

[181] 


Having  finished  this  first  course  of  big-neck 
clams,  they  were  joined  by  a  third  muskrat, 
and,  together,  they  filed  over  the  bank  and 
down  into  the  meadow.  Shortly  two  of  them 
returned  with  great  mouthfuls  of  the  mud- 
bleached  ends  of  calamus-blades.  Then  fol- 
lowed the  washing. 

They  dropped  their  loads  upon  the  plank, 
took  up  the  stalks,  pulled  the  blades  apart,  and 
soused  them  up  and  down  in  the  water,  rubbing 
them  with  their  paws  until  they  were  as  clean 
and  white  as  the  whitest  celery  one  ever  ate. 
What  ay  dainty  picture !  Two  little  brown 
creatures,  humped  on  the  edge  of  a  plank, 
washing  calamus  in  moonlit  water  ! 

One  might  have  taken  them  for  half-grown 
coons  as  they  sat  there  scrubbing  and  munching. 
Had  the  big  barred  owl,  from  the  gum-swamp 
down  the  creek,  come  along  then,  he  could 
easily  have  bobbed  down  upon  them,  and  might 
almost  have  carried  one  away  without  the  other 
knowing  it,  so  all-absorbing  was  the  calamus- 
washing,  i ; 

Muskrats,  like  coons,  will  wash  what  they 
eat,  whether  washing  is  needed  or  not.  It  is  a 
[182] 


necessary  preliminary  to  dinner— their  right- 
eousness, the  little  Pharisees !  Judging  from 
the  washing  disease  which  ailed  two  tame  musk- 
rats  that  I  knew,  it  is  perfectly  safe  to  say  that 
had  these  found  clean  bread  and  butter  upon 
the  plank,  instead  of  muddy  calamus,  they 
would  have  scoured  it  just  the  same. 

Before  the  two  011  the  plank  had  finished 
their  meal,  the  third  muskrat  returned,  drag- 
ging his  load  of  mud  and  roots  to  the  scrubbing. 
He  was  just  dipping  into  the  water  when  there 
was  a  terrific  explosion  in  my  ears,  a  roar  that 
echoed  round  and  round  the  pond.  As  the 
smoke  lifted,  there  were  no  washers  upon  the 
plank ;  but  over  in  the  quiet  water  floated 
three  long,  slender  tails. 

"No  man  gwine  stan7  dat  shot,  boy,  jis  V  see 
a  mus'rat  wash  hi'  supper  "  ;  and  Uncle  Jethro 
limbered  his  stiffened  knees  and  went  chuckling 
down  the  bank. 


[183] 


A   STUDY    IN   BIKD   MORALS 


"  She  melted  away  among  the  dark  pines  like  a  shadow. ' 


A  STUDY   IN   BIRD  MORALS 


eternal  distinctions  of  right  and  wrong 
JL  upon  which  the  moral  law  is  based  inhere 
even  in  the  jelly  of  the  amoeba.  The  Decalogue 
binds  all  the  way  down.  In  the  course  of  a  lit 
tie  observation  one  must  find  how  faithfully  the 
animals,  as  a  whole,  keep  the  law,  and  how  sadly, 
at  times,  certain  of  them  are  wont  to  break  it. 
To  pass  over  such  notorious  cases  as  the  cow- 
bird,  cuckoo,  turkey  -buzzard,  and  crow,  there  is 
still  cause  for  positive  alarm,  if  the  birds  have 
souls,  in  the  depraved  habit  of  duplicity  common 
among  them.  In  a  single  short  tramp,  one  June 
afternoon,  no  less  than  five  different  birds  at- 
tempted to  deceive  me.  The  casuist  may  be  able 
to  justify  all  five  of  them  ;  for,  no  doubt,  there  are 
extremities  when  this  breach  of  the  law  should 
not  merit  condemnation  ;  but  even  so,  if  in  the 
[187] 


limits  of  one  short  walk  five  little  innocents  de- 
liberately act  out  the  coolest  of  falsehoods,  one 
cannot  help  wondering  if  it  is  not  true  that  the 
whole  creation  needs  redeeming. 

The  first  of  these  five  was  a  yellow  warbler. 
I  was  trying  to  look  into  her  nest,  which  was 
placed  in  the  top  of  a  clump  of  alders  in  a 
muddy  pasture,  when  she  slipped  out  and  flut- 
tered like  an  autumn  leaf  to  the  ground.  She 
made  no  outcry,  but  wavered  down  to  my  feet 
with  quivering  wings,  and  dragged  herself  over 
the  water  and  mud  as  if  wounded.  I  paused  to 
look  at  her;,  and,  as  long  as  I  watched,  she  played 
her  best  to  lure  me.  A  black -snake  would  have 
struck  at  her  instantly  ;  but  I  knew  her  woman's 
ways  and  turned  again  to  the  nest.  As  soon  as 
she  saw  that  her  tears  and  prayers  would  not 
avail,  she  darted  into  the  bushes  near  me  and 
called  me  every  wicked  thing  that  she  could 
think  of.  I  deserved  it  all,  of  course,  though  I 
was  only  curious  to  see  her  cradle  and  its  hold- 
ings, which,  had  she  been  a  human  mother,  she 
would  have  insisted  on  my  stopping  to  see. 

On  the  way  to  Lupton's  I  climbed  a  sharp, 
pine-covered  hill,  where  the  needles  were  so 
[188] 


slippery  that  I  had  to 
halt  for  a  minute's  rest 
at  the  top.    The  trees  rose 
straight    and     close     and 
slender,  with  scarcely  a  live 
branch  reaching  out  nearer 
the  ground  than  twenty  feet. 
The  roof  of  green  shut  out 
the  light,  and  the  matting  of  brown 
spread  the  ground  so  deep  that  only 
a  few  stunted  blueberry -bushes,  small 
ferns,  and  straying  runners  of  ground- 
[189] 


"  She  called  me 
every  wicked 
thing  that  she 
could  think  of." 


pine  abode  there.  It  was  one  of  those  cathe- 
dral-like clumps,  a  holy  of  holies  of  the  woods, 
into  whose  dim  silence  the  straggling  bushes, 
briers,  and  other  lowly  forest  folk  dare  not  come, 
but  fall  upon  their  knees  outside  and  worship. 

The  birds,  however,  are  not  so  reverent.  I 
was  scarcely  stretched  upon  the  needles  when  a 
slight  movement  overhead  arrested  my  atten- 
tion. As  I  looked,  a  soft  fluttering  of  wings 
brought  a  blue  jay  into  the  branches  directly 
above  me.  There  is  nothing  peculiar  in  finding 
a  blue  jay  among  the  pines— they  usually  nest 
there,  ^ut  there  was  something  peculiar  about 
this  jay ;  he  moved  so  quietly,  he  appeared  so 
entirely  unconscious  of  me,  though  I  knew  that 
he  saw  me  as  plainly  as  I  him.  Then  at  his  side 
alighted  his  mate,  meeker  and  more  modest 
than  a  chippy. 

What  did  it  signify— these  squawking,  scold- 
ing, garrulous  birds  suddenly  gone  silent  and 
trustful  ?  In  the  pines  at  this  season  one  never 
gets  nearer  a  jay  than  field-glass  range— near 
enough  to  hear  him  dash  away,  screeching  de- 
fiance. But  here  were  these  two  gliding  among 
the  branches  above  my  head  as  cautiously  and 
[190] 


"  It  was  one  of 
those  cathedral- 
like  clumps." 


V  ^ 


•'They  were 
watching  me. 


softly  as  cuckoos,  searching  apparently  for  grubs, 
yet  keeping  all  the  time  to  the  one  spot,  not 
leaving  for  a  moment  to  hunt  among  other 
trees.  Round  and  round  the  same  limbs  they 
went,  without  once  screaming  or  uttering  so 
much  as  a  word  of  that  sweet,  confiding  talk 
which  one  hears  when  he  spies  on  a  pair  of 
lovers  or  a  newly  wedded  couple  of  these  birds. 
[192] 


I  became  suspicious.  All  this  meant  something. 
The.y  kept  close  together,  and  fluttered  about, 
hanging  from  the  twigs  head  down  like  chicka- 
dees, deliberately  biting  off  bunches  of  needles, 
prying  into  the  cones,  and  scaling  off  bits  of 
bark,  but  finding  nothing,  nor  even  trying  to 
find  anything. 

At  this  juncture  I  chanced  to  move  my  feet. 
The  birds  stopped  instantly ;  but  on  my  be- 
coming quiet  they  went  on  scattering  the  nee- 
dles and  bark-chips  again.  Then  I  raised  my 
glass.  They  paused  just  for  a  second,  and  con- 
tinued, though  now  I  saw  that  their  picking  was 
all  at  random,  hitting  the  limb  or  not  as  might 
be.  They  were  not  hunting  grubs :  they  were 
watching  me  ;  and  more— they  were  keeping  me 
watching  them. 

It  was  a  clever  little  ruse.  But  it  was  too 
good,  too  new,  too  unjaylike  for  my  faith. 
There  was  a  nest  against  one  of  these  pines,  as 
sure  as  it  was  June.  And  this  fearless  uncon- 
cern ?  this  new  and  absorbing  interest  in  grubs  ? 
All  assumed  !— very  genuinely  assumed,  indeed, 
and  might  have  led  me  to  do  a  dozen  things 
other  than  looking  for  the  nest,  had  I  known  a 
13  [193] 


little  less  of  jays.  It  was  heroic,  too.  They 
were  calm  and  had  all  their  wits  about  them. 
Outwardly  they  were  indifferent  to  my  presence 
and  gave  me  not  the  slightest  heed.  But  this 
was  all  show.  Every  instant  they  saw  me  ;  and, 
while  pretending  not  to  know  that  I  was  near, 
they  had  come  to  intercept  me,  to  attract  my 
attention  to  themselves,  and  save  their  nest. 
And  at  how  much  cost !  To  have  looked  within 
those  calm  little  bosoms  were  to  have  seen  two 
hearts  as  anxious  and  fearful  as  ever  thumped 
parental  breasts. 

If  I  haxl  been  deceived  and  led  to  waste  my 
afternoon  or  to  record  something  untrue  of  the 
blue  jay,  still,  I  think,  these  two  birds  could 
hardly  have  been  condemned  before  the  law. 
For  did  not  their  motive  justify  the  deed? 

The  blue  jays  are  braggarts,  full  of  noise,  and 
almost  without  morals  ;  yet  they  have  not  seemed 
to  me  quite  as  bad  as  they  used  to,  not  quite 
the  same  blustering,  quarrelsome,  unmoral  rene- 
gades, since  these  two  showed  me  how  they 
could  conquer  their  instinctive  fears  and  rise 
superior  to  everything  common  and  cowardly 
by  the  power  of  their  parental  love. 
[194] 


I  could  not  find  the  nest ;  so  returning  the 
next  day,  I  crept  under  cover  to  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  and,  ascending  stealthily,  saw  the  hen  as  she 
slipped  from  the  home  tree.  She  melted  away 
among  the  dark  pines  like  a  shadow,  but  reap- 
peared immediately  with  her  mate  to  head  me 
off  again.  Not  this  time,  however,  for  I  had 
their  secret.  My  eye  was  upon  the  nest.  It 
was  a  loose,  rough  affair  of  coarse  sticks,  fixed 
upon  two  dead  branches  well  up  against  a  slen- 
der pine's  trunk.  I  could  see  patches  of  light 
sky  through  it,  it  was  such  a  botch.  But  where 
art  failed  nature  perfected.  I  saw  the  sky 
through  the  bungled  structure,  but  not  the  eggs. 
I  had  to  climb  to  see  them,  for  they  were  so 
washed  with  shadowy  green  that  they  blended 
perfectly  with  the  color  of  the  nest  and  the  sub- 
dued light  of  the  pines. 

After  my  adventure  with  the  jays  I  had  an 
interesting  experience  with  a  pair  of  tiny  birds 
in  the  sand-bank  on  the  north  side  of  Lupton's 
Pond. 

The  country  immediately  surrounding  the 
pond  is  exceedingly  varied  and  full  of  life. 
The  high,  level  farm-lands  break  off  into  sand- 
[195] 


banks,  which,  in  turn,  spread  into  sweeping 
meadows  that  run  out  to  the  creek.  The  little 
pond  lies  between  steep  hills  of  chestnut-oak 
and  pine,  its  upper  waters  being  lost  in  a  dense 
swamp  of  magnolia  and  alder,  while  over  the 
dam  at  its  foot  there  rushes  a  fall  that  echoes 
around  the  wooded  hills  and  then  goes  purling 
among  the  elder  and  dog  roses  into  the  sullen 
tide-ditches  of  the  meadow.  Except  the 
meadows  and  cultivated  fields,  everything  is  on 
a  small  scale,  as  if  the  place  were  made  of  the 
odds  and  ends,  the  left-over  pieces  in  the  making 
of  the  region  round  about.  Such  diversity  of 
soils,  such  a  medley  of  features,  such  profusion 
of  life,  in  a  territory  of  the  same  size  I  never  saw 
elsewhere.  At  the  boarding-school,  near  by, 
Lupton's  Pond  is  known  as  "  Paradise." 

On  reaching  the  pond  I  went  over  to  the 
sand-bank  to  look  for  a  pair  of  kingfishers  who 
had  nested  there  many  years;  but  instead  of 
them,  I  saw  a  pair  of  winter  wrens  fly  sharply 
among  the  washed-out  roots  of  a  persimmon- 
tree  which  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  hill  above. 
I  instantly  lost  sight  of  one  of  the  birds.  The 
actions  of  the  other  were  so  self-conscious  that  I 
[196] 


stopped  and  watched— I  had  never  found  a 
winter  wren's  nest.  In  a  moment  the  missing  bird 
appeared  and  revealed  the  nest.  It  was  large  for 
the  size  of  the  builders,  made  of  sticks,  grass,  and 
feathers,  and  was  fixed  among  the  black  roots  just 
below  the  green  hilltop,  and  set  into  the  sand  far 
enough  to  leave  a  little  of  one  side  exposed. 

The  wrens  hurried  away  on  my  approach  ; 
but  when  I  retreated  to  the  foot  of  the  bank, 
they  darted  back  to  the  nest,  the  hen  entering 
without  a  pause,  while  the  cock  perched  upon  a 
root  at  the  door  and  began  a  most  extraordinary 
performance. 

He  managed  to  put  himself  directly  between 
me  and  the  tiny  portal,  completely  cutting  off 
my  view  of  the  little  brown  wife  inside  the  nest  j 
then,  spreading  his  wings,  with  tail  up  and  head 
on  one  side,  he  fluttered  and  bobbed  and  wagged 
and  poured  out  a  volume  of  song  that  was  pro- 
digious. It  lifted  him  fairly  off  his  feet.  Had 
he  suddenly  gone  up  with  a  whizz,  like  a  sky- 
rocket, and  burst  into  a  shower  of  bubbles,  trills, 
runs,  and  wild,  ecstatic  warbles,  I  should  have 
looked  on  with  no  more  wonder.  Such  a  song  ! 
It  was  singing  gone  mad. 
[197] 


My  head  was  on  a  level  with  him.  I  leaned 
forward  nearer  the  bank.  At  this  he  went 
crazy  with  his  efforts — into  a  fit,  almost.  I 
cannot  have  been  mistaken :  it  was  the  first 
time  that  I  had  ever  heard  a  bird  sing  when  in 
terror  j  but  I  had  whistled  my  way  past  too 
many  dogs  and  through  too  many  graveyards 
at  night  to  be  deceived  in  the  note  of  fear,  and 
in  the  purpose  of  this  song.  That  bit  of  a 
husband  was  scared  almost  out  of  his  senses ; 
but  there  he  stood,  squarely  between  me  and 
that  precious  nest  and  the  more  precious  wife, 
guarding  them  from  my  evil  eyes  with  every 
atom  of  his  midget  self. 

It  was,  as  fine  an  illustration  of  courage  as  I 
ever  saw,  a  triumph  of  love  and  duty  over  fear 
—fear  that  perhaps  we  have  no  way  to  measure. 
And  it  was  a  triumph  of  wedded  love  at  that  ; 
for  there  were  no  young,  not  even  an  egg  in  the 
unfinished  nest.  It  all  happened  in  less  than  a 
minute.  The  female  reappeared  in  an  instant, 
satisfied  that  all  was  well  with  the  nest,  and  both 
birds  sped  off  and  dropped  among  the  briers. 

How  would  the  casuist  decide  for  so  sweet,  so 
big,  so  heroic  a  deception— or  the  attempt'? 
[198] 


A  little   farther  down  the  creek,  where  the 
meadows  meet  the  marsh,  dwell  the  cousins  of 


"  A  triumph  of  love  and  duty  over  fear." 

the  winter  wrens,  the  long-billed  marsh- wrens. 
Here  in  the  wide  reaches  of  calamus  and  reeds, 
where  the  brackish  tide  comes  in,  the  marsh- 
wrens  build  by  hundreds.  Their  big,  bulky 
nests  are  woven  about  a  handful  of  young  cala- 
mus-blades, or  vtied  to  a  few  long,  stout  sedge  - 
stalks,  and  grow  as  the  season  grows. 
[199] 


The  nests  are  made  of  coarse  marsh-grass,— of 
the  floatage  often,— and  are  so  long  in  the  pro- 
cess of  construction  that,  when  completed,  they 
are  all  speared  through  with  the  grass-blades,  as 
with  so  many  green  bayonets.  They  are  about 
the  size  of  a  large  calabash,  nearly  round,  thick  - 
walled  and  heavy,  with  a  small  entrance,  just 
under  the  roof,  leading  upward  like  a  short 
stair  to  a  deep,  pocket-like  cavity,  at  whose 
bottom  lie  the  eggs,  barely  out  of  finger  reach. 

I  could  hear  the  smothered  racket  of  the 
singing  wrens  all  about  me  in  the  dense  growth, 
scoldings  to  my  right,  defiance  to  my  left,  dis- 
cussions of  wives,  grumblings  of  husbands,  and 
singing  of  lovers  everywhere,  until  the  whole 
marsh  seemed  a- sputter  and  a-bubble  with  a 
gurgling  tide  of  song  like  a  river  running  in. 
Now  and  then,  a  wave,  rising  higher  than  its 
fellows,  splashed  up  above  the  reeds  and  broke 
into  song-spray,  as  an  ecstasy  lifted  the  wee 
brown  performer  out  of  the  green. 

But  these  short  dashes  of  the  wrens  into 
upper  air,  I  have  come  to  believe,  are  not  en- 
tirely the  flights  of  enraptured  souls.  Some- 
thing more  than  Mr.  Chapman's  "mine  of 
[200] 


music  bursts  within  them."  Before  they  knew 
that  I  was  near  I  rarely  saw  one  make  this  sing- 
ing dive  into  the  air ;  but  as  soon  as  they  were 
acquainted  with  my  presence  they  appeared  on 
every  hand.  I  had  not  gone  fifty  feet  into 
their  reedy  domain  when  I  began  to  catch  a 
furious  berating.  The  knives  of  the  mowing- 
machine  up  in  the  meadow  went  no  faster  nor 
sharper  than  these  unseen  tongues  in  the  reeds. 
Suddenly  a  bit  of  brown  fury  dashed  into  view 
near  me,  spattered  the  air  thick  with  song- 
notes,  and,  as  if  veiled  by  this  cloud  of  melody, 
it  turned  on  its  head  and  dived  back,  chatter- 
ing of  all  that  was  seen  to  the  other  furies  in 
the  reeds. 

Does  any  one  believe  that  exhibition  to  be 
an  explosion  of  pure  song— the  exaltation  of 
unmixed  joy!  If  ever  the  Ninth  Command- 
ment was  broken,  it  was  broken  here. 

This  uncontrollable  emotion,  this  shower  of 
song,  is  but  a  cloak  to  the  singer's  fear  and 
curiosity.  He  wants  to  know  where  I  am  and 
what  I  am  about.  I  once  knew  a  little  dog 
who  was  so  afraid  of  the  dark  that  he  would 
run  barking  all  the  way  to  the  barn  when  put 
[201] 


out  at  night.  So  these  little  spies  start  up 
singing  their  biggest  as  a  blind  to  their  real 
feelings  and  purposes. 

The  quail's  broken  wings  and  rushes  of  blood 
to  the  head  during  nesting-time  have  lost 
their  lure  even  for  the  small  boy  j  yet  they 
somehow  still  work  on  me.  I  involuntarily 
give  my  attention  to  this  distress  until  too  late 
to  catch  sight  of  the  scurrying  brood.  I  ima- 
gine, too,  that  the  oldest  and  wisest  of  the  foxes 
is  still  fooled  by  this  make-believe,  and  will 
continue  to  be  fooled  to  the  end  of  time. 

A  barren,  stony  hillside  slopes  gradually  to 
the  marsh  where  the  wrens  live.  Here  I  was 
met  by  the  fifth  deceiver,  a  killdeer  plover. 
The  killdeer's  crocodile  tears  are  bigger  and 
more  touchingly  genuine  than  even  the  quail's. 
And,  besides  all  her  tricks,  she  has  a  voice  that 
fairly  drips  woe. 

The  killdeer  always  builds  in  a  worn-out, 
pebbly  pasture  or  in  a  bare,  unused  field.  Here 
among  the  stones  she  makes  her  nest  by  scrap- 
ing out  a  shallow  cavity,  into  which  she  scratches 
a  few  bits  of  rotten  wood  and  weed-stalks  in 
sizes  that  would  make  good  timber  for  a  caddis- 
[202] 


•*-' 


"  He  wants  to  know  where  I  am  and  what  I  am  about." 

worm's  house.  Instead  of  digging  the  cavity, 
she  often  hunts  up  two  or  three  stones  and  a 
corn-butt,  which  happen  to  lie  so  that  she  can 
crowd  in  between  them,  and  makes  this  shift 
serve  her  for  a  nest. 

Her  eggs  are  one  of  the  world's  small  wonders. 
They  lie  out  in  the  open  like  so  many  of  the 
pebbles  about  them— resembling  the  stones  so 
perfectly  that  they  are  more  often  overlooked 
or  crushed  than  discovered.  The  ground  color 
[203] 


of  the  egg  is  that  of  the  earth,  and  the  mark- 
ings correspond  marvelously  to  the  size,  shade, 
and  distribution  of  the  bits  of  wood  beneath 
them  in  the  nest.  I  know  of  no  other  instance 
of  protective  coloring  among  the  birds  so 
nearly  perfect,  unless  it  be  the  killdeer  herself 
when  playing  her  favorite  trick  of  " invisible." 

She  had  seen  me  before  I  entered  the  reeds 
of  the  marsh -wrens.  Squatting  close  over  her 
eggs,  she  watched  me  silently,  and  seeing  that  I 
was  approaching  her  nest  on  my  way  up  the 
hill,  she  glided  off  and  suddenly  appeared  at 

my  feet.    /Where   she   came   from    I    did  not 

i 

know.  It  was  as  if  the  earth  had  opened  and 
let  her  out.  I  stopped.  That  was  what  she 
wanted.  "You  numskull,  look  at  me  and  make 
a  fool  of  yourself,"  she  said  by  the  light  in  her 
eye.  I  did  exactly  so. 

With  her  head  outstretched  and  body  close 
to  the  ground,  she  slid  like  a  ghost  before  me  as 
I  followed.  Now  she  took  form  like  a  stone, 
now  seemed  to  sink  out  of  sight  into  the  earth, 
reappearing  only  to  vanish  again  into  thin  air. 
Thus  she  led  me  on,  contriving  to  keep  from 
beneath  my  feet,  and  always  just  out  of  reach, 
[204] 


till,  seeing  that  my  credulity  and  patience  were 
failing,  she  broke  silence  for  a  desperate  last 
act,  and  fell  in  a  fit,  screaming,  Kill-dee,  Mil-dee, 
Ull-dee  I 

There  she  lay  in  the  agony  of  death.  I  stooped 
to  piclf  her  up ;  but  she  happened  to  flutter  a 
little — the  death-spasm.  I  stepped  forward  to 
take  her.  Putting  my  hand  down,  I— ah !  not 
dead  yet !  Poor  thing  !  She  jerked  just  out 
of  my  hand— reflex  action,  no  doubt.  But  now 
it  is  all  over ;  she  is  dead,  and  I  bend  to  pick 
her  up,  when,  springing  like  an  arrow  from  my 
grasp,  killdeer,  ringing  out  her  wail,  goes  swiftly 
flying  across  the  hill. 

Fooled  !  Yes  ;  but  not  altogether  fooled,  for 
I  knew  that  it  would  turn  out  so.  The  im- 
postor !  But  was  n't  it  beautifully  done  ?  I 
shall  never  grow  too  wise  to  be  duped. 

She  has  played  me  a  trick,  and  now  I  will 
revenge  myself  and  find  her  nest.  I  shall — 
perhaps. 


In  the  agony  of  death.' 

[205] 


RABBIT   KOADS 


KABBIT   ROADS 


IN  your  woods  walks  did  you  ever  notice  a 
little  furrow  or  tunnel  through  the  under- 
brush, a  tiny  roadway  in  the  briers  and  huckle- 
berry-bushes'? Did  you  ever  try  to  follow  this 
path  to  its  beginning  or  end,  wondering  who 
traveled  it?  You  have,  doubtless.  But  the 
woods  must  be  wild  and  the  undergrowth  thick 
and  you  must  be  as  much  at  home  among  the 
trees  as  you  are  in  your  own  dooryard,  else  this 
slight  mark  will  make  no  impression  upon  you. 
14  [209] 


But  enter  any  wild  tract  of  wood  or  high 
swamp  along  the  creek,  and  look  sharp  as  you  cut 
across  the  undergrowth.  You  will  not  go  far 
before  finding  a  narrow  runway  under  your  feet. 
It  is  about  five  inches  wide,  leading  in  no  partic- 
ular direction,  and  is  evidently  made  by  cutting 
off  the  small  stems  of  vines  and  bushes  at  an  inch 
or  more  from  the  ground.  The  work  looks  as  if 
it  had  been  laid  out  by  rule  and  done  with  a 
sharp  knife,  it  is  so  regular  and  clean. 

This  is  a  rabbit  road.  Follow  it  a  few  rods 
and  you  will  find  it  crossed  by  another  road,  ex- 
actly similar.  Take  this  new  path  now,  and 
soon  you  are  branching  off,  turning,  and  joining 
other  roads.  You  are  in  rabbit-land,  traveling 
its  highways— the  most  complicated  and  entan- 
gling system  of  thoroughfares  that  was  ever  con- 
structed. The  individual  roads  are  straight 
and  plain  enough,  but  at  a  glance  one  can 
see  that  the  plan  of  the  system  is  intended  to 
bewilder  and  lead  astray  all  who  trespass  here. 
Without  a  map  and  directions  no  one  could 
hope  to  arrive  at  any  definite  point  through 
such  a  snarl. 

There  often  comes  along  with  the  circus  a 

[210] 


building  called  the  " Moorish  Maze/'  over  whose 
entrance  is  this  invitation  : 

COME  IN  AND   GET  LOST  ! 

This  is  what  one  reads  at  the  cross-roads  in 
rabbit-land.  There  are  finger-boards  and  mile- 
stones along  the  way ;  but  they  point  nowhere 
and  mark  no  distances  except  to  the  rabbits. 

An  animal's  strong  points  usually  supplement 
each  other  ;  its  well-developed  powers  are  in  line 
with  its  needs  and  mode  of  life.  So,  by  the  very 
demands  of  his  peculiar  life,  the  beaver  has  be- 
come chief  among  all  the  animal  engineers,  his 
specialty  being  dams.  He  can  make  a  good  slide 
for  logging,  but  of  the  construction  of  speedways 
he  knows  absolutely  nothing.  The  rabbit,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  a  runner.  He  can  swim  if  he 
is  obliged  to.  His  interests,  however,  lie  mostly 
in  his  heels,  and  hence  in  his  highways.  So 
Bunny  has  become  an  expert  road- maker.  He 
cannot  build  a  house,  nor  dig  even  a  respectable 
den ;  he  is  unable  to  climb,  and  his  face  is  too 
flat  for  hole -gnawing :  but  turn  him  loose  in  a 
brambly,  briery  wilderness,  and  he  will  soon 
thread  the  trackless  waste  with  a  network  of 
[211] 


roads,  and  lay  it  open  to  his  nimble  feet  as  the 
sky  lies  open  to  the  swallow's  wings. 

But  how  maddening  these  roads  are  to  the 
dogs  and  foxes  !  In  the  first  place,  they  have  a 
peculiar  way  of  beginning  nowhere  in  particular, 
and  of  vanishing  all  at  once,  in  the  same  blind 


''  Calamity  is  hot  oil  his  track." 

fashion.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  ever  found  a  satis- 
factory end  to  a  rabbit's  road— that  is,  a  nest,  a 
playground,  or  even  a  feeding-place.  Old  Ca- 
lamity, the  hound,  is  always  tormented  and 
undone  whenever  she  runs  foul  of  a  rabbit 
road. 

She  will  start  Bunny  in  the  open  field,  and  trail 
away  after  him  in  full  tongue  as  fast  as  her  fat 
[212] 


bow-legs  will  carry  her.  The  rabbit  makes  for 
the  woods.  Calamity  is  hot  on  his  track,  going 
down  toward  the  creek.  Suddenly  she  finds 
herself  plunging  along  a  rabbit  road,  breaking 
her  way  through  by  sheer  force  where  the  rabbit 
slipped  along  with  perfect  ease.  She  is  following 
the  path  now  rather  than  the  scent,  and,  all  at 
once,  discovers  that  she  is  off  the  trail.  She 
turns  and  goes  back.  Yes,  here  the  rabbit  made 
a  sharp  break  to  the  right  by  a  side -path ;  the 
track  is  fresh  and  warm,  and  the  old  hound  sings 
in  her  eager  delight.  On  she  goes  with  more 
haste,  running  the  path  again  instead  of  the 
trail,  and— there  is  no  path  !  It  is  gone.  This 
bothers  the  old  dog ;  but  her  nose  is  keen  and 
she  has  picked  up  the  course  again.  Here  it  goes 
into  another  road.  She  gives  tongue  again,  and 
rushes  on,  when—  Wow  I  she  has  plunged  into  a 
thick  and  thorny  tangle  of  greenbrier. 

That  is  where  the  torment  conies  in.  These 
roads  have  a  habit  of  taking  in  the  brier-patches. 
Calamity  will  go  round  a  patch  if  she  can ;  she 
will  work  her  way  through  if  she  must— but  it  is 
at  the  cost  of  bloody  ears  and  a  thousand  smart- 
ing pricks.  Bunny,  meantime,  is  watching  just 
[213] 


inside  the  next  brier-patch,  counting  the  digs  of 
his  clumsy  pursuer. 

I  suppose  that  this  "blind  alley  "  kind  of  road 
is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  rabbits  have  no  regu- 
lar homes.  They  make  a  nest  for  the  young; 
but  they  never  have  dens,  like  minks  and  coons. 
In  New  England  they  often  live  in  holes  and 
among  the  crannies  of  the  stone  walls  ;  and  there, 
as  far  as  I  have  seen,  they  rarely  or  never  make 
roads.  Farther  south,  where  the  winters  are 
less  severe,  they  dig  no  holes,  for  they  prefer  an 
open,  even  an  exposed,  bed  to  any  sort  of  shelter. 

Shelters  are  dangerous.  Bunny  cannot  back 
into  a  burrow  and  bare  his  teeth  to  his  enemy ; 
he  is  not  a  fighter.  He  can  run,  and  he  knows 
it ;  legs  are  his  salvation,  and  he  must  have  room 
to  limber  them.  If  he  has  to  fight,  then  give 
him  the  open,  not  a  hole  ;  for  it  is  to  be  a  kanga- 
roo kicking  match,  and  a  large  ring  is  needed. 
He  had  as  well  surrender  himself  at  once  as  to 
run  into  a  hole  that  has  only  one  opening. 

During  the  cold,  snowy  weather  the  rabbits 

usually  leave   the   bare  fields  for  the   woods, 

though  the  older  and  wiser  ones  more  frequently 

suffer  the  storms  than  risk  the  greater  danger 

[214] 


fi 


"Bunny,  meantime,  is  watching  just  inside  the  next  brier-patch." 

of  such  a  move.  When  pressed  by  hunger  or 
hounded  hard,  they  often  take  to  a  rail-pile,  and 
sometimes  they  grow  so  bold  as  to  seek  hiding 
under  a  barn  or  house.  One  young  buck  lived 
all  winter  in  the  wood-pile  of  one  of  my  neigh- 
bors, becoming  so  tame  that  he  fed  with  the 
chickens. 

The  nearest  approach  that  a  rabbit  makes  to 
a  house  is  his  "squat,"  or  form.  This  is  simply  a 
sitting-place  in  the  fields  or  along  the  woods,  that 
he  will  change  every  time  he  is  thoroughly  fright- 
ened out  of  it.  Undisturbed  he  will  stay  in  this 
[215] 


squat  for  months  at  a  time.  Occasionally  a  rab- 
bit will  have  two  or  three  squats  located  over  his 
range,  each  one  so  placed  that  a  wide  view  on 
every  side  may  be  had.  If  it  is  along  the  woods, 
then  he  sits  facing  the  open  fields,  with  his 
ears  laid  back  toward  the  trees.  He  can  hear  as 
far  as  he  can  see,  and  his  nose  tells  him  who  is 
coming  up  the  wind  sooner  than  either  eyes  or 
ears. 

It  is  cold,  lonely  living  here  in  the  winter. 
But  everybody,  except  the  mice  and  little  birds, 
are  enemies,  his  only  friends  being  his  wits 
and  legs.  l  In  the  long  run,  wits  and  legs  are 
pretty  safe  insurance.  "He  who  fights  and  runs 
away  will  live  to  fight  another  day,"  is  Bunny's 
precept— and  it  works  well ;  he  still  thrives. 

The  squat  is  a  cold  place.  The  sky  is  its  roof, 
and  its  only  protection  is  the  tuft  of  grass,  the 
stone,  or  the  stump  beside  which  it  is  placed. 
Bunny  may  change  to  the  lee  or  windward  side, 
as  suits  him,  during  a  storm  j  but  usually  he 
keeps  his  place  and  lies  close  to  the  ground,  no 
matter  how  the  wind  blows,  or  how  fiercely  falls 
the  rain  and  snow.  I  have  frequently  started 
them  from  their  squats  in  bleak,  wind-swept 
[216] 


fields,  when  the  little  brown  things  were  com- 
pletely snowed  under. 

There  is  great  individuality  among  all  animals, 
and  though  the  rabbits  look  as  much  alike  as 
peas,  they  are  no  exception  to  the  rule.     This 
personality  is  especially  shown  in  their  whimsical 
fancies  for  certain  squats.     Here,  within  sight  of 
the  house  and  the  dog,  an  old  rabbit  took  up  her 
abode  on  a  big,  flat  rail  in  the  corner  of  the 
fence.     Of  course  no  hawk  or  owl  could  touch 
her  here,  for  they  dared  not  swoop  between 
the  rails  ;  the  dog  and  cat  could  scent  her, 
but  she  had  already  whipped  the  cat,  and 
she  had  given  Calamity  so  many  long  runs 
that  the  hound  was  weary  of  her.     The  strate- 
gic value  of  such  a  situation  is  plain :  she  was 
thus  raised  just  above  the  level  of  the  field  and 
commanded  every  approach.    Perhaps  it  was  not 
whim,  but  wisdom,  that  led  to  this  selection. 

I  knew  another,  a  dwarf  rabbit,  that  always 
got  into  a  bare  or  plowed  field  and  squatted  be- 
side a  brown  stone  or  clod  of  earth.  Experience 
had  taught  him  that  he  looked  like  a  clod,  and 
that  no  enemy  ever  plagued  him  when  he  lay 
low  in  the  brown  soil. 


[217] 


"  The  squat  is  a  cold  place. 


One  summer  I  stumbled  upon  a  squat  close 
along  the  public  road.  Cart-loads  of  trash  had 
been  dumped  there,  and  among  the  debris  was  a 
bottomless  coal-scuttle.  In  the  coal-scuttle  a 
rabbit  made  his  squat.  Being  open  at  both  ends, 
it  sheltered  him  beautifully  from  sun  and  rain. 
Here  he  sat,  napping  through  the  day,  watching 
the  interesting  stream  of  passers-by,  himself 
hidden  by  the  rank  weeds  and  grass.  When  dis- 
covered by  a  dog  or  boy,  he  tripped  out  of  one 
of  his  open  doors  and  led  the  intruder  a  useless 
run  into  the  swamp. 

At  one  t^me  my  home  was  separated  from  the 
woods  by  only  a  clover-field.  This  clover-field 
was  a  favorite  feeding-ground  for  the  rabbits  of 
the  vicinity.  Here,  in  the  early  evening,  they 
would  gather  to  feed  and  frolic  ;  and,  not  content 
with  clover,  they  sometimes  went  into  the  garden 
for  a  dessert  of  growing  corn  and  young  cabbage. 

Take  a  moonlight  night  in  autumn  and  hide 
in  the  edge  of  these  woods.  There  is  to  be  a  rab- 
bit party  in  the  clover-field.  The  grass  has  long 
been  cut  and  the  field  is  clean  and  shining  ;  but 
still  there  is  plenty  to  eat.  The  rabbits  from 
both  sides  of  the  woods  are  coming.  The  full 
[218] 


inoon  rises  above  the  trees,  and  the  cottontails 
start  over.  Now,  of  course,  they  use  the  paths 
which  they  cut  so  carefully  the  longest  possible 
way  round.  They  hop  leisurely  along,  stopping 
now  and  then  to  nibble  the  sassafras  bark  or  to 
get  a  bite  of  wintergreeu,  even  quitting  the  path, 
here  and  there,  for  a  berry  or  a  bunch  of  sweet 
wood-grass. 

"Stop  a  moment ;  this  won't  do  !  Here  is  a  side- 
path  where  the  briers  have  grown  three  inches 
since  they  were  last  cut  off.  This  path  must  be 
cleared  out  at  once,"  and  the  old  buck  falls  to  cut- 
ting. By  the  time  he  has  finished  the  path  a  dozen 
rabbits  have  assembled  in  the  clover-field.  When 
he  appears  there  is  a  thump ,  and  all  look  up  j  some 
one  runs  to  greet  the  new-comer ;  they  touch 
whiskers  and  smell,  then  turn  to  their  eating. 

The  feast  is  finished,  and  the  games  are  on. 
Four  or  five  of  the  rabbits  have  come  together 
for  a  turn  at  hop-skip-and-jump.  And  such  hop- 
skip-and-jump  !  They  are  professionals  at  this 
sport,  every  one  of  them.  There  is  not  a  rabbit 
in  the  game  that  cannot  leap  five  times  higher 
than  he  can  reach  on  his  tiptoes,  and  hop  a  clean 
ten  feet. 

[219] 


p 


"  The  limp,  lifeless  one  hanging  over  the  neck  of  that  fox. 


Over  and  over  they  go,  bounding  and  bounc- 
ing, snapping  from  their  marvelous  hind  legs  as 
if  shot  from  a  spring-trap.  It  is  the  greatest 
jumping  exhibition  that  you  will  ever  see.  To 
have  such  legs  as  these  is  the  next  best  thing  to 
having  wings. 

Right  in  the  thick  of  the  fun  sounds  a  sharp 
thump!  thump!  Every  rabbit  " freezes."  It  is 
the  stamp  of  an  old  buck,  the  call,  Danger! 
danger !  He  has  heard  a  twig  break  in  the  woods, 
or  has  seen  a  soft,  shadowy  thing  cross  the  moon. 

As  motionless  as  stumps  squat  the  rabbits,  stiff 
with  the  tenseness  of  every  ready  muscle.  They 
listen.  But  it  was  only  a  dropping  nut  or  a  rest- 
less bird  ;  and  the  play  continues. 

They  are  chasing  each  other  over  the  grass  in 
a  game  of  tag.  There  go  two,  round  and  round, 
tagging  and  re-tagging,  first  one  being  "it"  and 
then  the  other.  Their  circle  widens  all  the  time 
and  draws  nearer  to  the  woods.  This  time  round 
they  will  touch  the  bush  behind  which  we  are 
watching.  Here  they  come — there  they  go ; 
they  will  leap  the  log  yonder.  Flash  !  squeak  ! 
scurry  !  Not  a  rabbit  in  the  field  !  Yes  ;  one 
rabbit— the  limp,  lifeless  one  hanging  over  the 
[221] 


neck  of  that  fox  trotting  off  yonder  in  the 
shadows,  along  the  border  of  the  woods  ! 

The  picnic  is  over  for  this  night,  and  it  will  be 
some  time  before  the  cottontails  so  far  forget 
themselves  as  to  play  in  this  place  again. 

It  is  small  wonder  that  animals  do  not  laugh. 
They  have  so  little  play.  The  savage  seldom 
laughs,  for  he  hunts  and  is  hunted  like  a  wild 
animal,  and  is  allowed  so  scant  opportunity  to  be 
off  guard  that  he  cannot  develop  the  power  to 
laugh.  Much  more  is  this  true  of  the  animals. 
From  the  day  an  animal  is  born,  instinct  and 
training  ar/e  bent  toward  the  circumvention  of 
enemies.  There  is  no  time  to  play,  no  chance, 
no  cause  for  laughter. 

The  little  brown  rabbit  has  least  reason  of  all 
to  be  glad.  He  is  utterly  inoffensive,  the  enemy 
of  none,  but  the  victim  of  many.  Before  he 
knows  his  mother  he  understands  the  meaning  of 
Be  ready !  Watch !  He  drinks  these  words  in 
with  his  milk.  The  winds  whisper  them ;  the 
birds  call  them ;  every  leaf,  every  twig,  every 
shadow  and  sound,  says :  Be  ready !  Watch ! 
Life  is  but  a  series  of  escapes,  little  else  than 
vigilance  and  flight,  He  must  sleep  with  eyes 
[222] 


open,  feed  with  ears  up,  move  with  muffled  feet, 
and,  at  short  stages,  he  must  stop,  rise  on  his 
long  hind  legs,  and  listen  and  look.  If  he  ever 
forgets,  if  he  pauses  one  moment  for  a  wordless, 
noiseless  game  with  his  fellows,  he  dies.  For 
safety's  sake  he  lives  alone ;  but  even  a  rabbit 
has  fits  of  sociability,  and  gives  way  at  times  to 
his  feelings.  The  owl  and  the  fox  know  this, 
and  they  watch  the  open  glades  and  field-edges. 
They  must  surprise  him. 

The  barred  owl  is  quick  at  dodging,  but  Bunny 
is  quicker.  It  is  the  owl's  soft,  shadow-silent 
wings  that  are  dreaded.  They  spirit  him 
through  the  dusk  like  a  huge  moth,  wavering 
and  aimless,  with  dangling  dragon -claws.  But 
his  drop  is  swift  and  certain,  and  the  grip  of 
those  loosely  hanging  legs  is  the  very  grip  of 
death.  There  is  no  terror  like  the  ghost-terror 
of  the  owl. 

The  fox  is  feared ;  but  then,  he  is  on  legs,  not 
wings,  and  there  are  telltale  winds  that  fly  be- 
fore him,  far  ahead,  whispering,  Fox,  fox,  fox  ! 
The  owl,  remember,  like  the  wind,  has  wings— 
wings  that  are  faster  than  the  wind's,  and  the 
latter  cannot  get  ahead  to  tell  of  his  coming. 
[223] 


Reynard  is  cunning.  Bunny  is  fore -sighted,  wide 
awake,  and  fleet  of  foot.  Sometimes  he  is  caught 
napping — so  are  we  all  j  but  if  in  wits  he  is  not 
always  Reynard's  equal,  in  speed  he  holds  his 
own  very  well  with  his  enemy.  Reynard  is 
nimble,  but  give  the  little  cottontail  a  few  feet 
handicap  in  a  race  for  life,  and  he  stands  a  fair 
chance  of  escape,  especially  in  the  summer  woods. 

When  the  hounds  are  on  his  trail  the  rabbit 
saves  his  legs  by  outwitting  his  pursuers.  He 
will  win  a  long  distance  ahead  of  them,  and  be- 
fore they  overtake  him  he  will  double  on  his 
track,  approaching  as  near  as  he  dare  to  the 
dogs,  then  leap  far  aside  upon  a  log,  into  a  stream, 
or  among  the  bushes,  and  strike  out  in  a  new 
direction,  gradually  making  back  toward  the 
starting-place.  He  rises  on  his  haunches  to  listen, 
as  he  goes  along,  and  before  the  dogs  have  again 
picked  up  the  trail,  he  has  perhaps  had  time  to 
rest  and  lunch. 

If  it  were  a  matter  of  dogs  only,  life  would  be 
just  full  enough  of  excitement  to  be  interesting. 
He  can  double,  balk,  and  mix  trails  on  them,  and 
enjoy  it.  They  are  nothing  to  fool.  But  the 
gun  !  Ah,  that  7s  a  foe  which  he  cannot  get  up 
[224] 


His  drop  is  swift  and  certain." 


with.  He  may  double  and  confuse  the  dogs ; 
but  as  he  comes  back  along  a  side-road,  with 
them  yelping  far  in  the  rear,  he  often  hops  right 
into  a  game-bag. 

To  do  justice  to  the  intelligence  of  the  dog, 
and  to  be  truthful  about  the  rabbit,  it  must  be 
remembered  that,  in  the  chase,  Bunny  usually 
has  the  advantage  of  knowing  the  lay  of  the  land. 
The  short  cuts,  streams,  logs,  briers,  and  roads 
are  all  in  mind  before  he  takes  a  jump.  The 
dog  is  often  on  strange  ground.  Free  the  rabbit 
for  the  hunt,  as  you  do  the  fox,  on  unknown 
territory,  and  the  dogs  will  soon  take  the  fright- 
ened, bewildered  little  creature. 

There  is  no  braver  or  more  devoted  mother 
in  all  the  wilds  than  Molly  Cottontail.  She  has 
a  mother's  cunning  and  a  mother's  resourceful- 
ness, also.  But  this  is  to  be  expected.  If  number 
of  children  count  for  experience,  then,  surely, 
Molly  ought  to  be  resourceful.  There  are  sea- 
sons when  she  will  raise  as  many  as  three  fam- 
ilies—and old-fashioned  families  for  size,  too. 
It  is  not  uncommon  to  find  ten  young  rabbits 
in  a  nest.  Five  times  twins !  And  all  to  be 
fed,  washed,  and  kept  covered  up  in  bed  toge- 
[226] 


ther !  But  animal  children,  as  a  rule,  behave 
better  than  human  children,  so  we  may  not  mea- 
sure the  task  of  Mother  Molly  by  any  standard 
of  our  own.  It  is  task  enough,  however,  since 
you  can  scarcely  count  the  creatures  that  eat 
young  rabbits,  nor  the  enemies  that  unwittingly 
destroy  them.  A  heavy  rain  may  drown  them, 
cattle  may  crush  them,  mowing-machines  may 
cut  them  to  pieces,  and  boys  who  are  starting 
menageries  may  carry  them  away  to  starve. 

Molly's  mother- wit  and  craft  are  sufficient  for 
most  of  these  things.  She  picks  out  a  sunny 
hillside  among  high  grasses  and  bushes  for  the 
nest,  so  that  the  rain  will  flow  off  and  not  flood 
it,  and  because  that  here  the  cows  are  not  so 
likely  to  trample,  nor  the  plow  and  mowing- 
machine  to  come.  She  must  also  have  ready  and 
hidden  access  to  the  nest,  which  the  grass  and 
bushes  afford. 

She  digs  a  little  hollow  in  the  sand  about  a  foot 
deep  and  as  big  around  as  a  duck's  nest,  lines  it 
first  with  coarse  grasses  and  leaves,  then  with  a 
layer  of  finer  grass,  and  fills  the  whole  with 
warm,  downy  fur  plucked  from  her  own  sides 
and  breast.  This  nest,  not  being  situated  at  the 
[227] 


end  of  an  inaccessible  burrow,  like  the  tame 
rabbit's  or  woodchuck's,  requires  that  all  care  be 
taken  to  conceal  every  sign  of  it.  The  raw  sand 
that  is  thrown  out  is  artfully  covered  with  leaves 
and  grass  to  blend  with  the  surrounding  ground  j 
and  over  the  nest  itself  I  have  seen  the  old  rabbit 
pull  vines  and  leaves  until  the  inquisitive,  nosing 
skunk  would  have  passed  it  by. 

Molly  keeps  the  young  ones  in  this  bed  for 
about  two  weeks,  after  which  time,  if  frightened, 
they  will  take  to  their  heels.  They  are  exceed- 
ingly tender  at  this  age  and  ought  not  to  be 
allowed  /to  run  out.  They  do  not  know  what  a 
man  is,  and  hardly  understand  what  their  hind 
legs  are.  I  saw  one  that  was  at  least  a  month 
old  jump  up  before  a  mowing-machine  and  bolt 
across  the  field.  It  was  his  first  real  scare,  and 
the  first  time  that  he  had  been  called  upon  to 
test  his  legs.  It  was  funny.  He  did  n't  know 
how  to  use  them.  He  made  some  tremendous 
leaps,  and  was  so  unused  to  the  powerful  spring 
in  his  hind  feet  that  he  turned  several  complete 
somersaults  in  the  air. 

Molly  feeds  the  family  shortly  after  nightfall, 
and  always  tucks  them  in  when  leaving,  with  the 
[228] 


caution  to  lie  quiet  and  still.  She  is  not  often 
surprised  with  her  young,  but  lingers  near  on 
guard.  You  can  easily  tell  if  you  are  in  the 
neighborhood  of  her  nest  by  the  way  she  thumps 
and  watches  you,  and  refuses  to  be  driven  off. 
Here  she  waits,  and  if  anything  smaller  than  a 
dog  appears  she  rushes  to  meet  it,  stamping  the 
ground  in  fury.  A  dog  she  will  intercept  by 
leaving  a  warm  trail  across  his  path,  or,  in  case 
the  brute  has  no  nose  for  her  scent,  by  throwing 
herself  in  front  of  him  and  drawing  him  off  on  a 
long  chase. 

One  day,  as  I  was  quietly  picking  wild  straw- 
berries on  a  hill,  I  heard  a  curious  grunting  down 
the  side  below  me,  then  the  quick  thud  !  thud  !  of 
an  angry  rabbit.  Among  the  bushes  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  rabbit  ears.  A  fight  was  on. 

Crouching  beside  a  bluish  spot,  which  I  knew 
to  be  a  rabbit's  nest,  was  a  big  yellow  cat.  He 
had  discovered  the  young  ones,  and  was  making 
mouths  at  the  thought  of  how  they  would  taste, 
when  the  mother's  thump  startled  him.  He 
squatted  flat,  with  ears  back,  tail  swelled,  and 
hair  standing  up  along  his  back,  as  the  rabbit 
leaped  over  him.  It  was  a  glimpse  of  Molly's 
[229] 


ears,  as  she  made  the  jump,  that  I  had  caught. 
It  was  the  beginning  of  the  bout— only  a  feint 
by  the  rabbit,  just  to  try  the  mettle  of  her  an- 
tagonist. 

The  cat  was  scared,  and  before  he  got  himself 
together,  Molly,  with  a  mighty  bound,  was  in 
the  air  again,  and,  as  she  flashed  over  him,  she 
fetched  him  a  stunning  whack  on  the  head  that 
knocked  him  endwise.  He  was  on  his  feet  in  an 
instant,  but  just  in  time  to  receive  a  stinging 
blow  on  the  ear  that  sent  him  sprawling  several 
feet  down  the  hill.  The  rabbit  seemed  constantly 
in  the  ajr.  Back  and  forth,  over  and  over  the 
cat  she  flew,  and  with  every  bound  landed  a 
terrific  kick  with  her  powerful  hind  feet,  that 
was  followed  by  a  puff  of  yellow  fur. 

The  cat  could  not  stand  up  to  this.  Every 
particle  of  breath  and  fight  was  knocked  out  of 
him  at  about  the  third  kick.  The  green  light  in 
his  eyes  was  the  light  of  terror.  He  got  quickly 
to  a  bush,  and  ran  away,  else  I  believe  that  the 
old  rabbit  would  have  beaten  him  to  death. 

The  seven  young  ones  in  the  nest  were  un- 
harmed. Molly  grunted  and  stamped  at  me  for 
looking  at  them  ;  but  I  was  too  big  to  kick  as  she 
[230] 


"  Seven  young  ones  in  the  nest." 

had  just  kicked  the  cat,  and  I  could  not  be  led 
away  to  chase  her,  as  she  would  have  led  a  dog. 
The  little  fellows  were  nearly  ready  to  leave  the 
nest.  A  few  weeks  later,  when  the  wheat  was 
cut  in  the  field  above,  one  of  the  seven  was  killed 
by  the  long,  fearful  knife  of  the  reaper. 
[231] 


Perhaps  the  other  six  survived  until  Novem- 
ber, the  beginning  of  the  gunning  season.  But 
when  the  slaughter  was  past,  if  one  lived,  he  re- 
membered more  than  once  the  cry  of  the  hounds, 
the  crack  of  the  gun,  and  the  sting  of  shot.  He 
has  won  a  few  months'  respite  from  his  human 
enemies ;  but  this  is  not  peace.  There  is  no 
peace  for  him.  He  may  escape  a  long  time  yet ; 
but  his  foes  are  too  many  for  him.  He  fights  a 
good  fight,  but  must  lose  at  last. 


[232] 


BRICK-TOP 


BKICK-TOP 

r  I  ^H AT  man  was  not  only  an  item  in  the  reck- 
JL  oning  when  the  world  was  made,  but  that 
his  attributes  were  anticipated  too,  is  every- 
where attested  by  the  way  nature  makes  use  of 
his  wreckage.  She  provides  bountifully  for  his 
comfort,  and,  not  content  with  this,  she  takes 
his  refuse,  his  waste,  what  he  has  bungled  and 
spoiled,  and  out  of  it  fashions  some  of  her  rarest, 
daintiest  delicacies.  She  gathers  up  his  chips 
and  cobs,  his  stubble  and  stumps,— the  crumbs 
which  fall  from  his  table,— and  brings  them  back 
to  him  as  the  perfection  of  her  culinary  art. 

So,  at  least,  any  one  with  an  imagination  and 
a  cultivated  taste  will  say  after  he  has  eaten 
that  October  titbit,  the  brick-top  mushroom. 

The  eating  of  mushrooms  is  a  comparatively 

unappreciated  privilege  in  our  country.     The 

taste  is  growing  rapidly  $  but  we  have  such  an 

abundance  of  more  likely  stuff  to  live  upon  that 

[235] 


the  people  have  wisely  abstained  from  a  fungus 
diet.  All  things  considered,  it  is  a  legitimate 
and  wholesome  horror,  this  wide-spread  horror 
of  toadstools.  The  woods,  the  wild  fields,  and 
the  shaded  roadsides  gleam  all  through  July  and 
August  with  that  pale,  pretty  "spring  mush- 
room, "  the  deadly  Agaricus  (Amanita)  vernus  ; 
yet  how  seldom  we  hear  of  even  a  child  being 
poisoned  by  eating  it !  Surely  it  seems  as  if  our 
fear  of  toadstools,  like  our  hatred  for  snakes,  has 
become  an  instinct.  I  have  never  known  a  mush- 
room enthusiast  who  had  not  first  to  conquer  an 
almost  mprtal  dread  and  to  coax  his  backward 
courage  and  appetite  by  the  gentlest  doses.  And 
this  is  well.  An  appetite  for  mushrooms  is  not 
wholly  to  be  commended.  Strangely  enough, 
it  is  not  the  novice  only  who  happens  to  suffer : 
the  professional,  the  addicted  eater,  not  infre- 
quently falls  a  victim. 

The  risk  the  beginner  runs  is  mainly  from 
ignorance  of  the  species.  In  gathering  anything 
one  naturally  picks  the  fairest  and  most  perfect. 
Now  among  the  mushrooms  the  most  beautiful, 
the  ideal  shapes  are  pretty  sure  to  be  of  the 
poisonous  Amanita  tribe,  whose  toxic  breath 
[236] 


throws  any  concentrated  combination  of  arsenic, 
belladonna,  and  Paris  green  far  into  the  shade. 
There  is  nothing  morally  wrong  in  the  mushroom 
habit,  yet  for  downright  fatality  it  is  eclipsed 
only  by  the  opium  habit  and  the  suicidal  taste 
for  ballooning. 

There  are  good  people,  nevertheless,  who  will 
eat  mushrooms— toadstools  even,  if  you  please. 
The  large  cities  have  their  mycological  socie- 
ties in  spite  of  muscarine  and  phallin,  as  they 
have  kennel  clubs  in  spite  of  hydrophobia. 
Therefore,  let  us  take  the  frontispiece  of  skull 
and  crossbones,  which  Mr.  Gibson  thoughtfully 
placed  in  his  poetic  book  on  toadstools,  for  the 
centerpiece  of  our  table,  bring  on  the  broiled 
brick-tops,  and  insist  that,  as  for  us,  we  know 
these  to  be  the  very  ambrosia  of  the  gods. 

The  development  of  a  genuine  enthusiasm  for 
mushrooms— for  anything,  in  fact— is  worth  the 
risk.  Eating  is  not  usually  a  stimulus  to  the 
imagination  ;  but  one  cannot  eat  mushrooms  in 
any  other  than  an  ecstatic  frame  of  mind.  If  it 
chances  to  be  your  first  meal  of  brick- tops  (you 
come  to  the  task  with  the  latest  antidote  at 
hand),  there  is  a  stirring  of  the  soul  utterly  im- 
[237] 


possible  in  the  eating  of  a  prosaic  potato.  You 
are  on  the  verge  all  the  time  of  discovery— of 
quail  on  toast,  oysters,  beefsteak,  macaroni, 
caviar,  or  liver,  according  to  your  nationality, 
native  fancy,  and  mycological  intensity. 
The  variety  of  meats,  flavors,  and  wholesome 
nutrients  found  in  mushrooms  by  the  average 
mycologist  beggars  all  the  tales  told  by  breakfast- 
food  manufacturers.  After  listening  to  a  warm 
mycologist  one  feels  as  Caleb  felt  at  sight  of  the 
grapes  and  pomegranates  :  the  children  of  Anak 
may  be  there,  but  this  land  of  the  mushroom  is 
the  land  /of  milk  and  honey  ;  let  us  go  up  at 
once  and  possess  it. 

If  eating  mushrooms  quickens  the  fancy,  the 
gathering  of  them  sharpens  the  eye  and  trains 
the  mind  to  a  scientific  accuracy  in  detail  that 
quite  balances  any  tendency  toward  a  gustato- 
poetic  extravagance.  When  one's  life,  when  so 
slight  a  matter  as  one's  dinner,  depends  upon  the 
nicest  distinctions  in  stem,  gills,  color,  and  age, 
even  a  Yankee  will  cease  guessing  and  make  a 
desperate  effort  to  know  what  he  is  about. 

Here  is  where  brick-top  commends  itself  over 
many  other  species  of  mushroom  that  approach 
[238] 


1  The  land  of  the  mushroom.' 


the  shape  of  the  deadly  Amanita.  It  is  umbrella- 
shaped,  moderately  long-stemmed,  regularly 
gilled,  and  without  a  "cup"  or  bulge  at  the 
root,  rather  pointed  instead.  It  is  a  rich  brick- 
brown  or  red  at  the  center  of  the  cap,  shading 
off  lighter  toward  the  circumference.  The  gills 
in  fresh  young  specimens  are  a  light  drab,  turn- 
ing black  later  with  the  black  spores.  It  comes 
in  September,  and  lasts  until  the  heavy  snows 
fall,  growing  rarely  anywhere  but  in  the  woods 
upon  oak  stumps.  I  have  found  a  few  scattering 
individuals  among  the  trees,  and  I  took  two  out 
of  my  lawn  one  autumn.  But  oak-trees  had 
stood  in  the  lawn  until  a  few  years  before,  and 
enough  of  their  roots  still  remained  to  furnish 
a  host  for  the  mushrooms.  A  stump  sometimes 
will  be  covered  with  them,  cap  over  cap,  tier 
crowding  tier  so  closely  that  no  particle  of  the 
stump  is  seen.  This  colony  life  is  characteristic. 
I  have  more  than  once  gathered  half  a  peck  of 
edible  specimens  from  a  single  stump. 

The  most  inexperienced  collector,  when  brick - 

top  has  been  pointed  out  to  him,  can  hardly  take 

any  other  mushroom  by  mistake.     It  is  strange, 

however,  that  this  delicious,  abundant,  and  per- 

[240] 


fectly  harmless  species  should  be  so  seldom  pic- 
tured among  the  edible  fungi  in  works  upon  this 
subject.  I  have  seen  it  figured  only  two  or  three 
times,  under  the  names  Hypholoma  perplexum 
and  H.  suUateritius,  with  the  mere  mention  that 
it  was  safe  to  eat.  Yet  its  season  is  one  of  the 
longest,  and  it  is  so  abundant  and  so  widely  dis- 
tributed as  to  make  the  gathering  of  the  more 
commonly  known  but  really  rarer  species  quite 
impractical. 

JSTo  one  need  fear  brick-tops.  When  taken 
young  and  clean,  if  they  do  not  broil  into  squab 
or  fry  into  frogs'  legs,  they  will  prove,  at  any 
rate,  to  be  deliciously  tender,  woodsy  sweetmeats, 
good  to  eat  and  a  joy  to  collect. 

And  the  collecting  of  mushrooms  is,  after 
all,  their  real  value.  Our  stomachs  are  too  much 
with  us.  It  is  well  enough  to  beguile  ourselves 
with  large  talk  of  rare  flavors,  high  per  cents,  of 
proteids,  and  small  butcher's  bills  ;  but  it  is  mostly 
talk.  It  gives  a  practical,  businesslike  com- 
plexion to  our  interest  and  excursions  ;  it  backs 
up  our  accusing  consciences  at  the  silly  waste  of 
time  with  a  show  of  thrift  and  economy ;  but 
here  mushroom  economy  ends.  There  is  about 
16  [241] 


as  much  in  it  as  there  is  of  cheese  in  the  moon. 
No  doubt  tons  and  tons  of  this  vegetable 
meat  go  to  waste  every  day  in  the  woods  and 
fields,  just  as  the  mycologists  say  ;  nevertheless, 
according  to  my  experience,  it  is  safer  and 
cheaper  to  board  at  a  first-class  hotel  than  in 
the  wilderness  upon  this  manna,  bounty  of  the 
skies  though  it  be. 

It  is  the  hunt  for  mushrooms,  the  introduction 
through  their  door  into  a  new  and  wondrous 
room  of  the  out-of-doors,  that  makes  mycology 
worthy  and  moral.  The  genuine  lover  of  the 
out-of-doors,  having  filled  his  basket  with  fungi, 
always  forces  his  day's  gleanings  upon  the  least 
resisting  member  of  the  party  before  he  reaches 
home,  while  he  himself  feeds  upon  the  excitement 
of  the  hunt,  the  happy  mental  rest,  the  sunshine 
of  the  fields,  and  the  flavor  of  the  woods.  After 
a  spring  with  the  birds  and  a  summer  with  the 
flowers,  to  leave  glass  and  botany-can  at  home 
and  go  tramping  through  the  autumn  after  mush- 
rooms is  to  catch  the  most  exhilarating  breath  of 
the  year,  is  to  walk  of  a  sudden  into  a  wonder- 
world.  With  an  eye  single  for  fungi,  we  see  them 
of  every  shape  and  color  and  in  every  imaginable 
[242] 


place— under  leaves,  up  trees,  in  cellars,  every- 
where we  turn.  Eings  of  oreads  dance  for  us 
upon  the  lawns,  goblins  clamber  over  the  rotting 
stumps,  and  dryads  start  from  the  hollow  trees 
to  spy  as  we  pass  along. 

Brick-top  is  in  its  prime  throughout  October 
—when,  in  the  dearth  of  other  interests,  we  need 
it  most.  By  this  time  there  are  few  of  the  birds 
and  flowers  left,  though  the  woods  are  far  from 
destitute  of  sound  and  color.  The  chickadees 
were  never  friendlier ;  and  when,  since  last  au- 
tumn, have  so  many  flocks  of  goldfinches  glit- 
tered along  our  paths  ?  Some  of  the  late  asters 
and  goldenrods  are  still  in  bloom,  and  here  and 
there  a  lagging  joepye-weed,  a  hoary  head  of 
boneset,  and  a  brilliant  tuft  of  ironweed  show 
above  the  stretches  of  brown. 

October  is  not  the  month  of  flowers,  even  if  it 
does  claim  the  witch-hazel  for  its  own.  It  is  the 
month  of  mushrooms.  There  is  something  un- 
natural and  uncanny  about  the  witch-hazel, 
blossoming  with  sear  leaf  and  limbs  half  bare. 
I  never  come  upon  it  without  a  start.  The 
sedges  are  dead,  the  maples  leafless,  the  robins 
gone,  the  muskrats  starting  their  winter  lodges  j 
[243] 


Witch-hazel. 


and  here,  in  the  yellow  autumn  sun,  straggles 
this  witch-hazel,  naked  like  the  willows  and 
alders,  but  spangled  thick  with  yellow  blossoms  ! 
Blossoms,  indeed,  but  not  flowers.  Hydras  they 
look  like,  from  the  dying  lily-pads,  crawling  over 
the  bush  to  yellow  and  die  with  the  rest  of  the 
dying  world. 

No  natural,  well-ordered  plant  ought  to  be  in 
flower  when  its  leaves  are  falling  ;  but  if  stumps 
and  dead  trees  are  to  blossom,  of  course  leaf-fall- 
ing time  would  seem  a  proper  enough  season. 
And  what  can  we  call  it  but  blossoming,  when  an 
old  oak-stump,  dead  and  rotten  these  ten  years, 
wakes  up  after  a  soaking  rain,  some  October 
morning,  a  very  mound  of  delicate,  glistening, 
brick-red  mushrooms!  It  is  as  great  a  wonder 
and  quite  as  beautiful  a  mystery  as  the  bursting 
into  flower  of  the  marsh-marigolds  in  May.  But 
no  deeper  mystery,  for— "dead,"  did  I  call 
these  stumps?  Rotten  they  may  be,  but  not 
dead.  There  is  nothing  dead  out  of  doors. 
There  is  change  and  decay  in  all  things  j  but  if 
birds  and  bugs,  if  mosses  and  mushrooms,  can 
give  life,  then  the  deadest  tree  in  the  woods  is 
the  very  fullest  of  life. 

[245] 


SECOND   CROPS 


SECOND   CEOPS 


TAKE  it  the  year  round,  the  deadest  trees  in 
the  woods  are  the  livest  and  fullest  of  fruit 
—for  the  naturalist.  Dr.  Holmes  had  a  passion 
for  big  trees ;  the  camera- carriers  hunt  up  his- 
toric trees  ;  boys  with  deep  pockets  take  to  fruit- 
trees  :  but  dead  trees,  since  I  developed  a  curios- 
ity for  dark  holes,  have  yielded  me  the  most  and 
largest  crops. 

An  ardor  for  decayed  trees  is  not  from  any 
perversity  of  nature.     There  is  nothing  unrea- 
[249] 


sonable  in  it,  as  in— bibliomania,  for  instance. 
I  discover  a  gaunt,  punky  old  pine,  bored  full  of 
holes,  and  standing  among  acres  of  green,  char- 
acterless companions,  with  the  held  breath,  the 
jumping  pulse,  the  bulging  eyes  of  a  collector 
stumbling  upon  a  Caxton  in  a  latest-publication 
book-store.  But  my  excitement  is  really  with 
some  cause  ;  for— sh  !  look  !  In  that  round 
hole  up  there,  just  under  the  broken  limb,  the 
flame  of  the  red-headed  woodpecker— a  light  in 
one  of  the  windows  of  the  woods.  Peep  through 
it.  What  rooms  !  What  people  !  No  ;  I  never 
paid  ten  cents  extra  for  a  volume  because  it  was 
full  of  years  and  mildew  and  rare  errata  (I  some- 
times buy  books  at  a  reduction  for  these  acci- 
dents) ;  but  I  have  walked  miles,  and  passed 
forests  of  green,  good-looking  trees,  to  wait  in 
the  slim  shade  of  some  tottering,  limbless  old 
stump. 

Within  the  reach  of  my  landscape  four  of  these 
ancient  derelicts  hold  their  stark  arms  against 
the  horizon,  while  every  wood-path,  pasture- 
lane,  and  meadow-road  leads  past  hollow  apples, 
gums,  or  chestnuts,  where  there  are  sure  to  be 
happenings  as  the  seasons  come  and  go.  Sooner 
[250] 


or  later,  every  dead  tree  in  the  neighborhood 
finds  a  place  in  my  note-book.  They  are  all 
named  and  mentioned,  some  over  and  over,— my 
list  of  Immortals,— all  very  dead  or  very  hollow, 
ranging  from  a  big  sweet-gum  in  the  swamp 
along  the  creek  to  an  old  pump-tree,  stuck  for  a 
post  within  fifty  feet  of  my  window.  The  gum 
is  the  hollowest,  the  pump  the  deadest,  tree  of 
the  lot. 

The  nozle-hole  of  the  one-time  pump  stares 
hard  at  my  study  window  like  the  empty  socket 
of  a  Cyclops.  There  is  a  small  bird-house  nailed 
just  above  the  window,  which  gazes  back  with  its 
single  eye  at  the  staring  pump.  For  some  time 
one  April  the  sputtering  sparrows  held  this  box 
above  the  window  against  the  attacks  of  two  tree- 
swallows.  The  sparrows  had  been  on  the  ground 
all  winter,  and  had  staked  their  claim  with  a  nest 
that  had  already  outgrown  the  house  when  the 
swallows  arrived.  In  love  of  fair  play,  and  re- 
membering more  than  one  winter  day  made  alive 
and  cheerful  by  the  sparrows,  I  could  not  inter- 
fere and  oust  them,  though  it  grieved  me  to  lose 
the  pretty  pair  of  swallows  as  summer  neighbors. 

The  swallows  disappeared.  All  was  quiet  for 
[251] 


"  I  knew  it  suited 
exactly." 


a  few  days,  when,  one  morning,  I  saw  the  flutter 
of  steel-blue  wings  at  the  hole  in  the  pump,  and 
there,  propped  hard  with  his  tail  over  the  hole, 
hung  my  tree-swallow.  I  should  have  that  pair 
as  tenants  yet,  and  in  a  house  where  I  could 
see  everything  they  did.  He  peered  quickly 
around,  then  peeped  cautiously  into  the  opening, 
and  slipped  out  of  sight  through  the  dark,  round 
hole. 

[252] 


I  knew  it  suited  exactly  by  the  glad,  excited 
way  he  came  out  aud  darted  off.  He  soon  re- 
turned with  the  little  shining  wife  ;  and  through 
a  whole  week  there  was  a  constant  passing  of 
blue  backs  and  white  breasts  as  the  joyous  pair 
fitted  up  the  inside  of  that  pump  with  grass  and 
feathers  fit  for  the  cradle  of  a  fairy  queen. 

By  the  rarest  fortune  I  was  on  hand  when  one 
of  the  sparrows  discovered  what  had  happened 
in  the  pump.  There  is  not  a  single  microbe  of 
Anglophobia  in  my  system.  But  need  one's  love 
for  things  English  include  this  pestiferous  spar- 
row? Anyhow,  I  feel  just  a  mite  of  satisfaction 
when  I  recall  how  that  sparrow,  with  the  colo- 
nizing instinct  of  his  race,  dropping  down  upon 
the  pump  with  the  notion  that  he  "  had  a  duty 
to  the  world,"  dropped  off  that  pump  straight- 
way, concluding  that  his  "duty"  did  not  relate 
to  that  particular  pump  any  longer.  The  spar- 
rows had  built  everywhere  about  the  place,  but 
that  that  pump— a  post,  and  a  post  to  a  pair  of 
bars  at  that— was  worth  settling  had  not  dawned 
on  them.  When  they  saw  that  the  swallows  had 
taken  it,  one  of  them  lighted  there  instantly, 
with  tail  up,  head  cocked,  very  much  amazed,  and 
[253] 


commenting  vo- 
looked  into  the 
possible  point, 
to  enter,  when 
whizz  of  wings, 
and  a  slap  that 
ning.  When  the 
low  swooped 
boomerang,  the 
scuttled  off  to 

That  was  a 
Peace  reigned 
along  i/Q  July 
eggs  had  found 
skimming  about 
or  counting  and 
selves  demurely 
upon  the  wire 

Between  two 
seen  from  the 
dow,  stands 


a 


ciferously.  He 
lole  from  every 
and  was  about 
there  came  a 
a  flash  of  blue, 
sent  him  spin- 
indignant  swal- 
back,  like  a 
sparrow  had 
an  apple-tree. 
coup  de  grace. 
after  that ;  and 
the  five  white 
wings  and  were 
the  fly-filled  air 
preening  them- 
in  a  solemn  row 
fence. 

pastures,  easily 
same  study  win- 
wild  apple-tree, 
eased  and  rheu- 


"  With  tail  up,  head 
cocked,  very  much 
amazed,  and  com- 

pathetically  dis-    mentins  vocifer- 

ously." 

matic,  which,  like  one  of  Mr.  Burroughs's  trees, 

never   bore   very    good    crops   of  apples,    but 

four    seasons   a    year    is   marvelously   full    of 

[254] 


animals.  It  is  chiefly  noted  for  a  strange 
collection  I  once  took  out  of  its  maw-like 
cavity. 

It  was  a  keen  January  morning,  and  I  stopped 
at  the  tree,  as  usual,  and  thumped.  No  lodgers 
there  that  day,  it  seemed.  I  mounted  the  rail 
fence  and  looked  in.  Darkness.  No ;  there  at 
the  bottom  was  a  patch  of  gray,  and— I  pulled 
out  a  snapping,  blinking  screech-owl.  Down 
went  my  hand  again,  and  a  second  owl  came 
blinking  to  the  light— this  one  in  rich  brown 
plumage.  When  I  turned  him  up,  his  clenched 
claws  held  fistfuls  of  possum  hair.  Once  more 
I  pushed  my  hand  down  the  hole,  gingerly,  and 
up  to  the  shoulder.  No  mistake.  Mr.  Possum 
was  in  there,  and  after  a  little  manoeuvering  I 
seized  him  by  the  collar,  and  out  he  came  grin- 
ning, hissing,  and  winking  at  the  hard,  white 
winter  day. 

And  how  exactly  like  a  possum  !  "  There  is  a 
time  for  all  things,"  comes  near  an  incarnation 
in  him.  There  is  a  time  for  eating  owls— at 
night,  of  course,  if  owls  can  then  be  had.  But 
day  is  the  time  to  sleep ;  and  if  owls  want  to 
share  his  bed  and  roost  upon  him,  all  right.  He 
[255] 


will  sleep  on  till  nightfall,  in  spite  of  owls.  And 
he  would  sleep  on  here  till  dusk,  in  spite  of  my 
rude  awakening,  if  I  gave  him  leave.  I  dropped 
him  back  to  the  bottom  of  the  hole,  then  put  the 
two  owls  back  upon  him,  and  went  my  way, 
knowing  I  should  find  the  three  still  sleeping  on 
my  return.  And  it  was  so.  The  owls  were  just 
as  surprised  and  just  as  sleepy  when  I  disturbed 
them  the  second  time  that  day.  I  left  them  to 
finish  their  nap.  But  the  possum  was  served  for 
dinner  the  following  evening— for  this,  too,  is 
strictly  in  accord  with  his  time-for-all-things 
philosophy. 

This  pair  of  owls  were  most  persistent  in  their 
attachment  to  the  apple-tree.  Several  times  in 
the  course  of  the  winter  I  found  them  sleeping 
soundly  in  this  same  deep  cavity,  making  their 
winter  lodgings  in  the  bent,  tumble-down  shanty 
which,  standing  not  far  from  the  woods  and  be- 
tween the  uplands  and  meadows,  has  been  home, 
hotel,  post-office,  city  of  refuge,  and  lookout  for 
many  of  the  wild  folk  about  the  fields. 

A  worn-out,  gone-to-holes  orchard  is  a  very 
city  of  hollows-loving  animals.  Not  far  away  is 
one  such  orchard  with  a  side  bordering  an 
[256] 


extensive  copse.     Where  the  orchard  and  copse 
meet  is  an  apple-tree  that  has  been  the  ancestral 


. 


"  In  a  solemn  row  upon  the  wire  fence." 

home  of  unnumbered  generations  of  flying-squir- 
rels.     The  cavity   was    first   hollowed   out   by 
flickers.    The  squirrels  were  interlopers.    When 
17  [257] 


the  young  come  in 
April  the  large  opening 
is  stuffed  with  shredded 
chestnut  bark,  leaving 
barely  room  enough 
for  the  parents  to 
squeeze  through.  The 
sharpest-eyed  hawk 
awing  would  never 
dream  of  waiting  out- 
side that  insignificant 
door  for  a  meal  of 
squirrel. 

But     such     precau- 
tions   are    not   always 
proof  against  boys.     I 
robbed  that  home  one 
spring    of    its    entire 
batch    of    babies    (no 
one  with  any  love  of 
wild  things  could  resist 
the  temptation  to  kid- 
nap young  flying-squirrels),  and    tried 
to    bring    them   up    in   domestic  ways. 
But  somehow  I  never  succeeded   with 
[258] 


"Young  flying- 
squirrels." 


pets.  Something  always  happened.  One  of 
these  four  squirrels  was  rocked  on,  a  second 
was  squeezed  in  a  door,  a  third  fell  before  he 
could  fly,  and  the  fourth  I  took  to  college  with 
me.  He  had  perfect  liberty,  for  I  had  no  other 
room-mate.  I  set  aside  one  hour  a  day  to 
putting  corks,  pens,  photographs,  and  knives 
back  in  their  places,  for  him  to  tuck  away  the 
next  day  in  one  of  my  shoes  or  under  my  pil- 
low. More  than  once  I  have  awakened  to  find 
him  curled  up  in  my  neck  or  up  my  sleeve, 
the  dearest  little  bedfellow  alive.  But  it  was 
three  stories  from  my  window  to  the  street ;  and 
one  day  he  tried  his  wings.  They  were  not 
equal  to  the  flight.  Since  then  I  have  left  my 
wild  pets  in  the  woods. 

If  one  wants  to  know  what  birds  are  about, 
especially  the  larger,  more  cautious  species,  let 
him  get  under  cover  near  a  tall  dead  oak  or 
walnut,  standing  alone  in  the  middle  of  open 
fields.  Such  a  tree  is  the  natural  rest  and  look- 
out for  every  passer.  Here  come  the  hawks  to 
wait  and  watch ;  here  the  sentinel  crows  are 
posted  while  the  flock  pilfers  corn  and  plugs 
melons ;  here  the  flickers  and  woodpeckers  light 
[259] 


for  a  quick  lunch  of  grubs,  to  call  for  company 
or  telegraph  across  the  fields  on  one  of  the  res- 
onant limbs  j  here  the  flocking  blackbirds  swoop 
and  settle,  making  the  old  tree  look  as  if  it  had 
suddenly  leaved  out  in  mourning — leaves  black 
and  crackling ;  and  here  the  turkey-buzzards 
halt  heavily  in  their  gruesomely  glorious  flight. 
With  good  field-glasses  there  is  no  other  van- 
tage-ground for  bird  study  equal  to  this.  Not  in 
a  day's  tramp  will  one  see  so  many  birds,  and 
have  such  chances  to  observe  them,  as  in  a  single 
hour,  when  the  sun  is  rising  or  setting,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  some  great,  gaunt  tree  that  has 
died  of  years  or  lonesomeness,  or  been  smitten 
by  a  bolt  from  the  summer  clouds. 


'•  The  sentinel  crows  are  posted.' 

[260] 


II 

NATURE'S  prodigality  and  parsimony  are  ex- 
tremes farther  apart  than  her  east  and  west. 
Why  should  she  be  so  lavish  of  interstellar 
space,  and  crowd  a  drop  of  stagnant  water 
so?  Why  give  the  wide  sea  surface  to  the 
petrels,  and  screw  the  sea-urchins  into  the  rocks 
on  Grand  Manan?  Why  scatter  in  Delaware 
Bay  a  million  sturgeon  eggs  for  every  one 
hatched,  while  each  mite  of  a  paramecium  is 
cut  in  two,  and  wholes  made  of  the  halves? 
Why  leave  an  entire  forest  of  green,  live  pines 
for  a  lonesome  crow  hermitage,  and  convert  the 
rottenest  old  stump  into  a  submerged- tenth  tene- 
ment? 

Part  of  the  answer,  at  least,  is  found  in  na- 
ture's hatred  and  horror  of  death.  She  fiercely 
refuses  to  have  any  dead.  An  empty  heaven,  a 
lifeless  sea,  an  uninhabited  rock,  a  dead  drop  of 
water,  a  dying  paramecium,  are  intolerable  and 
impossible.  She  hastens  always  to  give  them 
life.  The  succession  of  strange  dwellers  to  the 
decaying  trees  is  an  instance  of  her  universal  and 
endless  effort  at  making  matter  live. 
[261] 


Such  vigilance  over  the  ever- dying  is  very 
comforting — and  marvelous  too.  Let  any  in- 
different apple-tree  begin  to  have  holes,  and  the 
tree-toads,  the  bluebirds,  and  the  red  squirrels 
move  in,  to  fill  the  empty  trunk  with  new  life  and 
the  sapless  limbs  with  fresh  fruit.  Let  any  tall, 
stray  oak  along  the  river  start  to  die  at  the  top, 
and  straightway  a  pair  of  fish-hawks  will  load 
new  life  upon  it.  And  these  other,  engrafted 
lives,  like  the  graft  of  a  greening  upon  wild 
wood,  yield  crops  more  valuable  often,  and 
always  more  interesting,  than  come  from  the 
native  stock. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  more  useless  fruit  or  timber 
grown  than  that  of  the  swamp-gums  (Nyssa  uni- 
flora)  of  the  Jersey  bottoms.  But  if  we  value 
trees  according  to  their  capacity  for  cavities,— 
the  naturalist  has  a  right  to  such  a  scale  of  valua- 
tion, — then  these  gums  rank  first.  The  deliberate 
purpose  of  a  swamp-gum,  through  its  hundred 
years  of  life,  is  to  grow  as  big  as  possible,  that 
it  may  hollow  out  accordingly.  They  are  the 
natural  home-makers  of  the  swamps  that  border 
the  rivers  and  creeks  in  southern  New  Jersey. 
What  would  the  coons,  the  turkey-buzzards,  and 
[262] 


the  owls  do  without  them?  The  wild  bees 
believe  the  gums  are  especially  built  for  them. 
No  white -painted  hive,  with  its  disappearing 
squares,  offers  half  as  much  safety  to  these  free- 
booters of  the  summer  seas  as  the  gums,  open- 
hearted,  thick-walled,  and  impregnable. 

When  these  trees  alone  make  up  the  swamp, 
there  is  a  roomy,  empty,  echo-y  effect  among  the 
great  gray  boles,  with  their  high,  horizontal 
limbs  spanned  like  rafters  above,  produced  by 
no  other  trees  I  know.  It  is  worth  a  trip  across 
the  continent  to  listen,  under  a  clear  autumn 
moon,  to  the  cry  of  a  coon -dog  far  away  in  the 
empty  halls  of  such  a  swamp.  To  get  the  true 
effect  of  a  barred  owl's  hooting,  one  wants  to 
find  the  home  of  a  pair  in  an  ancient  gum-swamp. 
I  know  such  a  home,  along  Cohansey  Creek, 
where,  the  neighboring  farmer  tells  me,  he  has 
heard  the  owls  hoot  in  spring  and  autumn  since 
he  remembers  hearing  anything. 

I  cannot  reach  around  the  butt  of  the  tree  that 
holds  the  nest.  Tapering  just  a  trifle  and  a 
little  on  the  lean,  it  runs  up  smooth  and  round 
for  twenty  feet,  where  a  big  bulge  occurs,  just- 
above  which  is  the  capacious  opening  to  the 
[263] 


owls'  cave.  There  was  design  in  the  bulge,  or 
foresight  in  the  owls'  choice  j  for  that  excres- 
cence is  the  hardest  thing  to  get  beyond  I  ever 
climbed  up  to.  But  it  must  be  mounted,  or  the 
queerest  pair  of  little  dragons  ever  hatched  will 
go  unseen. 

The  owls  themselves  first  guided  me  to  the 
spot.  I  was  picking  my  way  through  this  piece 
of  woods,  one  April  day,  when  a  shadowy  some- 
thing swung  from  one  high  limb  to  another 
overhead,  following  me.  It  was  the  female  owl. 
Every  time  she  lighted  she  turned  and  fixed  her 
big  black  eyes  hard  on  me,  silent,  somber,  and 
watchful.  As  I  pushed  deeper  among  the  gums, 
she  began  to  snap  her  beak  and  drop  closer. 
Her  excitement  grew  every  moment.  I  looked 
about  for  the  likely  tree.  The  instant  I  spied 
the  hole  above  the  bulge,  the  owl  caught  the 
direction  of  my  eyes,  and  made  a  swoop  at  me 
that  I  thought  meant  total  blindness. 

I  began  to  climb.  With  this  the  bird  lapsed 
into  the  quiet  of  despair,  perched  almost  in 
reach  of  me,  and  began  to  hoot  mournfully : 
Woo-hoo,  woo-hoo,  woo-hoo,  oo-oo-a !  And  faint 
and  far  away  came  back  a  timid  Woo-hoo,  woo-a! 
[264] 


from  her  mate,  safely  hid  across 
the  creek. 

The  weird,  uncanny  cry 
rolled  round  under  the 
roof  of  limbs,  and 
seemed  to  wake  a 
ghost-owl  in  every 
hollow  bole,  echoing 
and  reechoing  as  it 
called  from  tree  to 
tree,  to  die  away 
down  the  dim,  deep 
vistas  of  the  swamp. 
The  silent  wings,  the 
snapping  beaks,  the  eery 
hoots  in  the  soft  gloom  of 
the  great  trees,  needed  the 
help  of  but  little  imagina- 
tion to  carry  one  back  to  the  threshold  of  an 
unhacked  world,  and  embolden  its  nymphs  and 
satyrs,  that  these  centuries  of  science  have  hunted 
into  hiding. 

I  wiggled  above  the  bulge  at  the  risk  of  life, 
and  was  greeted  at  the  mouth  of  the  cavern  with 
hisses  and  beak-snappings  from  within.     It  was 
[265] 


"  She  turned  and 
fixed  her  big  black 
eyes  hard  on  me." 


a  raw  spring  day ;  snow  still  lingered  in  shady 
spots.  But  here,  backed  against  the  farther 
wall  of  the  cavity,  were  two  young  owls,  scarcely 


"Wrapped  up  like  little  Eskimos." 

a  week  old,  wrapped  up  like  little  Eskimos— 
tiny  bundles  of  down  that  the  whitest-toothed 
frost  could  never  bite  through. 

Very  green  babies  of  all  kinds  are  queer,  un- 
[266} 


certain,  indescribable  creations— faith  genera- 
tors. But  the  greenest,  homeliest,  unlikeliest, 
babiest  babes  I  ever  encountered  were  these  two 
in  the  hole.  I  wish  Walt  Whitman  had  seen 
them.  He  would  have  written  a  poem.  They 
defy  my  powers  of  portrayal,  for  they  challenge 
the  whole  mob  of  my  normal  instincts. 

But  quite  as  astonishing  as  the  appearance  of 
the  young  owls  was  the  presence  beneath  their 
feet  of  the  head  of  a  half-grown  muskrat,  the 
hind  quarters  of  two  frogs,  one  large  meadow  - 
vole,  and  parts  of  four  mice,  with  many  other 
pieces  too  small  to  identify.  These  all  were 
fresh— the  crumbs  of  one  night's  dinner,  the 
leavings  of  one  night's  catch.  If  these  were  the 
fragments  only,  what  would  be  a  conservative 
estimate  of  the  night's  entire  catch  ? 

Gilbert  White  tells  of  a  pair  of  owls  that  built 
under  the  eaves  of  Selborne  Church,  that  he 
"minuted''  with  his  "watch  for  an  hour  to- 
gether," and  found  that  they  returned  to  the 
nest,  the  one  or  the  other,  "about  once  in  every 
five  minutes  "  with  a  mouse  or  some  little  beast 
for  the  young.  Twelve  mice  an  hour  !  Suppose 
they  hunted  only  two  evening  hours  a  day? 
[267] 


The  record  at  the  summer's  end  is  almost  beyond 
belief. 

Not  counting  what  the  two  old  owls  ate,  and 
leaving  out  of  the  count  the  two  frogs,  it  is  within 
limits  to  reckon  not  less  than  six  small  animals 
brought  to  the  hollow  gum  every  night  of  the 
three  weeks  that  these  young  owls  were  depen- 
dent for  food— a  riddance  in  this  short  time  of 
not  less  than  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  musk- 
rats,  mice,  and  voles.  What  four  boys  in  the 
same  time  could  clear  the  meadows  of  half  that 
number?  And  these  animals  are  all  harmful, 
the  mu^krats  exceedingly  so,  where  the  meadows 
are  made  by  dikes  and  embankments. 

Not  a  tree  in  South  Jersey  that  spring  bore  a 
more  profitable  crop.  When  fruit-growing  in 
Jersey  is  done  for  pleasure,  the  altruistic  farmer 
with  a  love  for  natural  history  will  find  large 
reward  in  his  orchards  of  gums,  that  now  are 
only  swamps. 

Just  as  useful  as  the  crop  of  owls,  and  beyond 
all  calculation  in  its  sweetening  effects  upon  our 
village  life,  is  the  annual  yield  of  swallows  by 
the  piles  in  the  river.  Years  ago  a  high  spring 
tide  carried  away  the  south  wing  of  the  old 
[268] 


"  It  is  no  longer  a  sorry  forest  of  battered,  sunken  stumps." 

bridge,  but  left  the  piles,  green  and  grown  over 
with  moss,  standing  with  their  heads  just  above 
flood-tide  mark.  In  the  tops  of  the  piles  are 
holes,  bored  to  pass  lines  through,  or  left  by 
rusted  bolts,  and  eaten  wide  by  waves  and  wind. 
Besides  these  there  are  a  few  genuine  excava- 
tions made  by  erratic  woodpeckers.  This  whole 
clump  of  water-logged  piles  has  been  colonized 
[269] 


by  blue -backed  tree-swallows,  every  crack  and 
cranny  wide  enough  and  deep  enough  to  hold  a 
nest  being  appropriated  for  domestic  uses  by  a 
pair  of  the  dainty  people.  It  is  no  longer  a 
sorry  forest  of  battered,  sunken  stumps ;  it  is  a 
swallow- Venice.  And  no  gayer  gondoliers  ever 
glided  over  wave-paved  streets  than  these  swal- 
lows on  the  river.  When  the  days  are  longest 
the  village  does  its  whittling  on  the  new  bridge 
in  the  midst  of  this  twittering  bird  life,  watch- 
ing the  swallows  in  the  sunset  skim  and  flash 
among  the  rotting  timbers  over  the  golden-flow- 
ing tide. 

If  I  1:urn  from  the  river  toward  the  woods 
again,  I  find  that  the  fences  all  the  way  are 
green  with  vines  and  a-hum  with  bumblebees. 
Even  the  finger-board  at  the  cross-roads  is  a  liv- 
ing pillar  of  ivy.  All  is  life.  There  are  no  dead, 
no  graveyards  anywhere.  A  nature-made  ceme- 
tery does  not  exist  in  my  locality.  Yonder, 
where  the  forest-fire  came  down  and  drank  of 
the  river,  is  a  stretch  of  charred  stumps ;  but 
every  one  is  alive  with  some  sort  of  a  tenant. 
Not  one  of  these  stumps  is  a  tombstone.  We 
have  graves  and  slabs  and  names  in  our  burial- 
[270] 


place,  and  nothing  more.  But  there  is  not  so 
much  as  a  slab  in  the  fields  and  woods.  When 
the  telegraph-poles  and  the  piles  are  cut,  the 
stumps  are  immediately  prepared  for  new  life, 
and  soon  begin  blossoming  into  successive  beds 
of  mosses  and  mushrooms,  while  the  birds  are 
directed  to  follow  the  bare  poles  and  make  them 
live  again. 

A  double  line  of  these  pole-specters  stretches 
along  the  road  in  front  of  my  door,  holding  hands 
around  the  world.  I  have  grown  accustomed  to 
the  hum  of  the  wires,  and  no  longer  notice  the 
sound.  But  one  May  morning  recently  there 
was  a  new  note  in  the  pole  just  outside  the  yard. 
I  laid  my  ear  to  the  wood.  Pick — pick — pick; 
then  all  was  still.  Again,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
I  heard  pick— pick— pick  on  the  inside.  At  my 
feet  was  a  scattering  of  tiny  yellow  chips.  Back- 
ing off  a  little,  I  discovered  the  hole,  about  the 
size  of  my  fist,  away  up  near  the  cross-bars.  It 
was  not  the  first  time  I  had  found  High-hole 
laying  claim  to  the  property  of  the  telegraph 
companies.  I  stole  back  and  thumped.  Instantly 
a  dangerous  bill  and  a  flashing  eye  appeared,  and 
High- hole,  with  his  miner's  lamp  burning  red 
[271] 


j 


"  Even  the  finger- 
board is  a  living 
pillar  of  ivy." 

in  the  top  of  his  cap 
lunged  off  across  the 
fields  in  some  ill  humor,  no  doubt. 
Throughout  the  summer  there  was  telegraph- 
ing with  and  without  wires  on  that  dry,  resonant 
pole.     And  meantime,  if  there  was  anything  un- 
intelligible in  the  ciphers  at  Glasgow  or  Washing- 
ton, it  was  high-hole  talk.     For  there  was  reared 
inside  that  pole  as  large,  as  noisy,  and  as  red- 
headed a  family  of  flickers  as  ever  hatched.  What 
a  brood  they  were !     They  must  have  snarled 
the  wires  and  Babelized  their  talk  terribly. 
[272] 


While  this  robust  and  uncultured  family  of 
flickers  were  growing  up;  only  three  doors  away 
(counting  by  poles)  a  modest  and  soft- voiced 
pair  of  bluebirds,  with  a  decently  numbered 
family  of  four,  were  living  in  a  hole  so  near  the 
ground  that  I  could  look  in  upon  the  meek  but 
brave  little  mother. 

There  is  still  another  dead-tree  crop  that  the 
average  bird-lover  and  summer  naturalist  rarely 
gathers— I  mean  the  white -footed  mice.  They 
are  the  j oiliest  little  beasts  in  all  the  tree  hollows. 
It  is  when  the  woods  are  bare  and  deep  with 
snow,  when  the  cold,  dead  winter  makes  outside 
living  impossible,  that  one  really  appreciates 
the  coziness  and  protection  of  the  life  in  these 
deep  rooms,  sunk  like  wells  into  the  hearts  of 
the  trees.  With  what  unconcern  the  mice  await 
nightfall  and  the  coming  of  the  storms !  They 
can  know  nothing  of  the  anxiety  and  dread  of 
the  crows  ;  they  can  share  little  of  the  crows' 
suffering  in  the  bitter  nights  of  winter.  A 
warm,  safe  bed  is  a  large  item  in  out-of-doors 
living  when  it  is  cold ;  and  I  have  seen  where 
these  mice  tuck  themselves  away  from  the  dark 
and  storm  in  beds  so  snug  and  warm  that  I 
18  [273] 


wished  to  be  an  elf  myself,  with  white  feet  and 
a  long  tail,  to  creep  in  with  them. 

I  had  some  wood-choppers  near  the  house  on 
the  lookout  for  mice,  but,  though  they  often 
marked  the  stumps  where  they  had  cut  into 
nests,  the  winter  nearly  passed  before  I  secured 
a  single  white -foot.  Coming  up  from  the  pond 
one  day  with  a  clerical  friend,  after  a  vain  at- 
tempt to  skate,  we  lost  our  way  in  the  knee- 
deep  snow,  and  while  floundering  about  happened 
upon  a  large  dead  pine  that  was  new  to  me.  It 
was  as  stark,  as  naked,  and  as  dead  a  tree,  ap- 
parently, as  ever  went  to  dust.  The  limbs  were 
broken  off  a  foot  or  more  from  the  trunk,  and 
stuck  out  like  stumps  of  arms  ;  the  top  had  been 
drilled  through  and  through  by  woodpeckers, 
and  now  lay  several  feet  away,  buried  in  the 
snow  ;  and  the  bole,  like  the  limbs,  was  without 
a  shred  of  bark,  but  covered  instead  with  a  thin 
coating  of  slime.  This  slime  was  marked  with 
fine  scratches,  as  would  be  made  by  the  nails  of 
very  small  animals.  I  almost  rudely  interrupted 
my  learned  friend's  discussion  of  the  documen- 
tary hypothesis  with  the  irreverent  exclamation 
that  there  were  mice  in  the  old  corpse.  The 
[274] 


Hebrew  scholar  stared  at  the  tree.  Then  he 
stared  at  me.  Had  I  gone  daft  so  suddenly? 
But  I  was  dropping  off  my  overcoat  and  order- 
ing him  away  to  borrow  the  ax  of  a  man  we 
heard  chopping.  He  looked  utterly  undone, 
but  thought  it  best  to  humor  me,  though  I  know 
he  dreaded  putting  an  ax  in  my  hands  just  then, 
and  would  infinitely  rather  have  substituted  his 
skates.  I  insisted,  however,  and  he  disappeared 
for  the  ax. 

The  snow  was  deep,  the  pine  was  punky  and 
would  easily  fall ;  and  now  was  the  chance  to  get 
my  mice.  They  were  in  there,  I  knew,  for  those 
fine,  fresh  scratches  told  of  scramblers  gone  up 
to  the  woodpecker  holes  since  the  last  storm. 

The  preacher  appeared  with  the  ax.  Off  came 
his  coat.  He  was  as  eager  now  as  though  this 
tottering  pine  were  an  altar  of  Baal.  He  was 
anxious,  also,  to  know  if  I  had  an  extra  sense— 
a  kind  of  X-ray  organ  that  saw  mice  at  the  cen- 
ters of  trees.  And,  priest  though  he  was  (shame 
on  the  human  animal !),  he  had  grown  excited 
at  the  prospect  of  the  chase  of — mice  ! 

I  tramped  away  the  snow  about  the  tree.  The 
ax  was  swinging  swiftly  through  the  air;  the 
[275] 


preacher  was  repeating  between  strokes:  uljm 
—  truly  —  sorry  — man's  —  dominion  — has — "  when 
suddenly  there  was  a  crunch,  a  crash,  and  the 
axman  leaped  aside  with  the  yell  of  a  fiend  ;  for, 
as  the  tree  struck,  three  tiny,  brown-backed, 
white-footed  creatures  were  dashed  into  the  soft 
snow.  "The  prettiest  thing  I  ever  saw,"  he  de- 
clared enthusiastically,  as  I  put  into  his  hand 
the  only  mouse  captured. 

We  traced  the  chambers  up  and  down  the 
tree  as  they  wound,  stairway-like,  just  inside 
the  hard  outer  shell.  Here  and  there  we  came 
upon  garners  of  acorns  and  bunches  of  bird 
feathers  and  shredded  bark— a  complete  fortress 
against  the  siege  of  winter. 

That  pine  had  not  borne  a  green  needle  for  a 
decade.  It  was  too  long  dead  and  too  much  de- 
cayed to  have  even  a  fat  knot  left.  Yet  there 
was  not  a  livelier,  more  interesting  tree  in  the 
region  that  winter,  nor  one  half  so  full  of  goings 
on,  as  this  same  old  shell  of  a  pine,  with  scarcely 
heart  enough  to  stand. 


[276] 


WOOD-PUSSIES 


WOOD-PUSSIES 

ONE  real  source  of  the  joy  in  out-of-door 
study  lies  in  its  off-time  character.  A 
serious,  bread-winning  study  of  birds  must  be  a 
lamentable  vocation  ;  it  comes  to  measuring  egg- 
shells merely,  and  stuffing  skins.  To  get  its  real 
tonic,  nature  study  must  not  be  carried  on  with 
Walden  Pond  laboriousness,  nor  with  the  unre- 
lieved persistence  of  a  five  years  aboard  a  Beagle. 
Darwin  staggered  under  the  burden  of  his  obser- 
vations ;  and  Thoreau  says :  "  I  would  not  have 
any  one  adopt  my  mode  of  living  5  for  before  he 
has  fairly  learned  it  I  may  have  found  out  an- 
other for  myself  "—and  so  he  did. 

No  ;  the  joy  in  wild  things  is  the  joy  of  being 
wild  with  them— vacation  joy.  Think  of  being 
forced  to  gather  ants  and  watch  spiders  for  a 
living !  It  would  be  quite  as  bad  as  making 
poetry  or  prophecy  one's  profession.  From  the 
day  Mohammed  formally  adopts  Koran-making 
[279] 


as  a  business,  he  begins  to  lose  his  spontaneity  and 
originality,  and  grows  prosy  and  artificial,  even 
plagiaristic.  Nature  shuns  the  professional. 
She  makes  her  happiest  visits  as  short  sur- 
prises, delightful  interruptions  and  diversions 
in  the  thick  of  our  earnest  business. 

You  can  take  no  vacation  in  the  mountains? 
Then  snatch  a  few  minutes  before  the  seven- 
o'clock  whistle  blows,  or  while  you  hoe,  or  be- 
tween office-hours,  to  look  and  listen.  The 
glimpses  of  wild  life  caught  at  such  times  will  be 
flashes  of  revelation.  It  may  be  the  instant  pic- 
ture of;  a  gray  fox  leaping  at  a  buzzard  from 
behind  a  bush  as  the  train  drives  across  the  wide, 
blank  prairies  of  southern  Kansas ;  or  a  warm 
time  with  wasps  while  mowing  in  New  Jersey  ; 
or  the  chirp  of  sparrows  in  passing  King's  Chapel 
Burial-ground  when  a  cold  winter  twilight  is 
settling  over  Boston ;  or  the  chance  meeting  of 
a  wood-pussy  on  your  way  home  from  singing- 
school  in  Maine.  Whatever  the  picture,  and 
wherever  obtained,  coming  in  this  unexpected 
way,  it  is  sure  to  be  more  lasting,  meaningful,  and 
happy  than  volumes  of  the  kind  gathered  after 
long  days  of  tramping  with  gun  and  glass. 
[280] 


Any  one  can  acquaint  himself  with  the  out-of- 
doors,  if  he  keeps  his  eyes  and  ears  open  and 
lives  a  little  while,  should  his  lines  happen  to 
fall  even  in  a  city.  Most  cities  have  parks,  or  a 
river,  or  a  zoological  garden.  A  zoological  gar- 
den is  not  to  be  despised  by  the  naturalist. 
About  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  every  wild 
animal  remains  wild  in  spite  of  iron  bars  and 
peanuts  and  visitors. 

There  is  one  little  creature,  however,  that  you 
must  live  at  least  on  the  edge  of  the  country  to 
know,  for  I  never  saw  a  zoological  garden  that 
had  a  pit  or  cage  for  him.  Yet  he  is  not  a  blood- 
thirsty nor  a  venomous  beast ;  in  fact,  he  is  as 
harmless  as  a  rabbit  and  every  whit  as  interest- 
ing as  a  prairie-dog.  Nevertheless  it  is  of  no 
use  to  look  for  him  in  the  city.  You  must  go 
out  to  the  outskirts,  to  the  farms  and  pastures,  if 
you  would  meet  the  wood-pussy.  And  even 
here  you  must  not  look  for  Mm,  but  go  to  church 
or  visit  the  neighbors  after  dark  and  let  the 
wood-pussy  look  for  you.  It  will  be  alto- 
gether a  rare  and  interesting  experience,  an 
encounter  to  remember. 

But  what  is  a  wood-pussy?  That  is  the 
[281] 


question  I  asked  myself  the  first  night  I  spent  in 
Maine.  I  had  occasion  to  go  down  the  road 
that  night,  and  as  my  hostess  handed  me  the 
lantern  she  said  warningly,  "Look  out  for  the 
wood  pussies  on  the  way."  From  what  I  was 
able  to  put  together  that  night  I  was  sure  that 
"wood-pussy  "  was  a  very  pretty  down-east  name 
for  what,  in  New  Jersey,  I  had  always  called  a 
skunk. 

I  have  had  about  a  dozen  unsought  meetings 
with  this  greatly  dreaded,  seldom-named,  but 
much-talked-of  creature.  Most  of  them  are 
moonlight  scenes— pictures  of  dimly  lighted, 
shadow-flecked  paths,  with  a  something  larger 
than  a  cat  in  them,  standing  stock-still  or  moving 
leisurely  toward  me,  silvered  now  with  pale  light, 
now  uncertain  and  monstrous  where  the  shadows 
lie  deepest.  With  these  memories  always  come 
certain  strange  sensations  of  scalp -risings,  chill 
feelings  of  danger,  of  wild  adventure,  and  of  hair- 
breadth escape. 

I  have  never  met  a  skunk  at  night  that  did 

not  demand  (and  receive)  the  whole  path,  even 

when  that  path  was  the  State  highway.     Dispute 

the  authority  of  a  skunk?     No  more  than  I 

[282] 


should  the  best-known  ranger's  in  Texas  when 
requested  to  hold  up  my  hands.  The  skunk  is 
the  only  animal  left  in  the  East  that  you  will  not 
parley  with.  Try  to  stare  the  Great  Stone  Face 
out  of  countenance  if  you  wish,  but  when  a 
skunk  begins  to  sidle  toward  you,  do  not  try  to 
stare  him  out  of  the  path  ;  just  sidle  in  the  direc- 
tion he  sidles,  and  sidle  as  fast  as  you  can. 

Late  one  afternoon  I  was  reading  by  the  side 
of  a  little  ravine  on  one  of  the  islands  in  Casco 
Bay.  The  sharp,  rocky  walls  of  the  cut  were 
shaded  by  scrub-pines  and  draped  with  dewberry- 
vines.  Presently  the  monotonous  slop  of  the 
surf  along  the  shore,  growing  fainter  as  the  tide 
ebbed,  was  broken  by  a  stir  in  the  dry  leaves  at 
the  bottom  of  the  ravine.  I  listened.  Something 
was  moving  below  me.  Creeping  cautiously  to 
the  edge,  I  looked  down,  and  there,  in  a  narrow 
yard  between  two  boulders,  not  ten  feet  beneath 
me,  was  a  family  of  seven  young  skunks. 

They  were  about  three  weeks  old,— " kittens," 
the  natives  called  them,— and  seemed  to  be  play- 
ing some  kind  of  a  rough-and-tumble  game  to- 
gether. Funny  little  bunches  of  black  and  white 
they  were,  with  pointed  noses,  beady  black  eyes, 
[283] 


y* 


A  family  of  seven  young  skunks." 


arid  very  grand  tails.  They  were  jet-black,  ex- 
cept for  white  tips  to  their  tails  and  a  pure 
white  mark  beginning  on  the  top  of  their  heads 
and  dividing  down  their  sides  like  the  letter  V. 

My  presence  was  unsuspected  and  their  play 
went  on.  It  was  a  sight  worth  the  rest  of  the 
vacation.  When  you  find  wild  animals  so  far  off 
their  guard  as  to  play,  do  as  Captain  Cuttle  sug- 
gests— "  make  a  note  of  it."  It  is  a  red-letter 
experience. 

I  doubt  if  there  is  another  set  of  children 
in  all  the  out-of-doors  so  apparently  incapable 
of  playing  as  a  set  of  young  skunks.  You 
have  watched  lambs  stub  and  wabble  about  in 
their  gambols,  clumsy  and  unsafe  upon  their  legs 
because  there  was  so  little  body  to  hold  down  so 
much  legs.  These  young  skunks  were  clumsier 
than  the  wabbliest-legged  lambkin  that  you  ever 
saw,  and  for  just  the  opposite  reason— there  was 
so  little  legs  to  hold  up  so  much  body.  Such 
humpty-dumpty  babies !  They  fell  over  each 
other,  over  the  stones,  and  over  their  paws  as  if 
paws  were  made  only  to  be  tumbled  over.  Their 
surest,  quickest  way  of  getting  anywhere  was  to 
upset  and  roll  to  it. 

[285] 


It  was  a  silent  playground,  as  all  animal  play- 
grounds are.  The  stir  of  the  dead  leaves  and 
now  and  then  a  faint  hiss  was  all  I  could  hear. 
Who  has  ever  heard  any  noise  from  untamed 
animals  at  play?  One  day  I  came  softly  upon 
two  white-footed  mice  playing  in  the  leaves 
along  a  wood- road  and  squeaking  joyously  ;  but 
as  a  rule  the  children  of  the  wilds,  no  matter  how 
exciting  their  games,  rarely  utter  a  word.  Si- 
lence is  the  first  lesson  they  are  taught.  Or  is  it 
now  instinctive  ?  Have  not  generations  of  bitter 
life-struggle  made  the  animals  so  timid  and 
wary  J;hat  the  young  are  born  with  a  dread 
of  discovery  so  strong  that  they  never  shout 
in  their  play?  This  softness  and  silence  was 
the  only  striking  difference  to  be  seen  in  the 
play  of  these  young  skunks  here  in  the  falling 
twilight,  safely  hidden  among  the  rocks  of  the 
wild  ravine,  and  that  of  school- children  upon  a 
village  green. 

The  child  is  much  the  same,  whether  the  par- 
ticular species  is  four-footed  or  whether  it  goes 
on  two  feet.  Here  below  me  one  of  the  little 
toddlers  got  a  bump  that  hurt  him,  and  it  made 
him  just  as  mad  as  a  bump  ever  did  me.  There 
[286] 


was  a  fuss  in  a  twinkling.  He  stamped  with 
both  fore  feet,  showed  his  teeth,  humped  his 
back,  and  turned  both  ends  of  his  tiny  body,  like 
a  pinched  wasp,  toward  every  one  that  came 
near  him.  The  others  knew  what  that  particu- 
lar twist  meant  and  kept  their  distance.  I  knew 
the  import  of  that  movement,  too.  These  young 
things  had  already  learned  their  lesson  of  self- 
defense.  I  believe  that  a  three-weeks-old  skunk 
could  hold  his  own  against  the  world. 

The  dusk  was  deepening  rapidly  in  the  ravine  5 
and  I  was  just  about  to  shout  to  see  how  they 
would  take  it,  when  a  long  black  snout  was 
thrust  slowly  out  from  beneath  a  piece  of  the 
ledge,  and  the  mother  of  the  young  skunks 
appeared.  Without  giving  them  a  look,  she 
crawled  off  around  a  rock.  The  family  followed  $ 
and  here  they  all  fell  to  eating  something— what, 
I  could  not  see.  I  tried  to  scare  them  away,  but 
at  my  commands  they  only  switched  their  tails 
and  doubled  into  defensive  attitudes.  Finally 
with  some  stones  I  drove  them,  like  so  many  huge 
crabs,  into  the  den,  and— horrors  !  they  were  eat- 
ing one  of  their  own  kin,  a  full-grown  skunk,  the 
father  of  their  family,  for  all  they  knew  or  cared, 
[287] 


that  had  been  killed  the  night  before  in  one  of 
the  islander's  chicken-coops. 

The  skunk  is  no  epicure.  The  matter  of  eat- 
ing one's  husband  or  wife,  one's  father  or  mother, 
has  never  struck  the  skunk  as  out  of  the  ordinary. 
As  far  as  my  observation  goes,  the  supreme  ques- 
tion with  him  is,  Can  this  thing  be  swallowed? 
Such  thoughts  as,  What  is  it?  How  does  it  taste? 
Will  it  digest?  Is  it  good  form?— no  skunk  since 
the  line  began  ever  allowed  to  interfere  with  his 
dinner.  An  enviable  disregard,  this  of  dietetics  ! 
To  eat  everything  with  a  relish  !  If  the  testi- 
mony o^f  Maine  farmers  can  be  credited,  this  ani- 
mal is  absol  utely  omnivorous.  During  th  e  winter 
the  skunks  burrow  and  sleep,  several  of  them 
in  the  same  hole.  When  they  go  in  they  are  as 
fat  as  September  woodchucks ;  but  long  before 
spring,  the  farmers  tell  me,  the  skunks  grow 
so  lean  and  hungry  that,  turning  cannibal,  they 
fall  upon  their  weaker  comrades  and  devour 
them,  only  the  strongest  surviving  until  the 
spring. 

In  August,  along  the  Kennebec,  I  found  the 
skunks  attacking  the  sugar  corn.  They  strip  the 
ears  that  hang  close  to  the  ground,  and  gnaw  the 
[288] 


* 


1  The  family  followed." 


19 


milky  grain.  But  they  do  most  damage  among 
the  chickens.  For  downright  destructiveness,  a 
knowing  old  skunk,  with  a  nice  taste  for  pullets 
and  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  the  barn-yard, 
discounts  even  Keynard.  Keynard  is  the  reputed 
arch-enemy  of  poultry,  yet  there  is  a  good  deal 
of  the  sportsman  about  him  ;  he  has  some  sort  of 
honor,  a  sense  of  the  decency  of  the  game.  The 
skunk,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  poacher,  a  slaugh- 
terer for  the  mere  sake  of  it.  My  host,  in  a  single 
night,  had  fourteen  hens  killed  by  a  skunk  that 
dug  under  the  coop  and  deliberately  bit  them 
through  the  neck.  He  is  not  so  cunning  nor  so 
swift  as  the  fox,  but  the  skunk  is  no  stupid.  He 
is  cool  and  calm  and  bold.  He  will  advance 
upon  and  capture  a  hen-house,  and  be  off  to  his 
den,  while  a  fox  is  still  studying  his  map  of  the 
farm. 

Yet,  like  every  other  predatory  creature,  the 
skunk  more  than  balances  his  debt  for  corn  and 
chickens  by  his  credit  for  the  destruction  of 
obnoxious  vermin.  He  feeds  upon  insects  and 
mice,  destroying  great  numbers  of  the  latter  by 
digging  out  the  nests  and  eating  the  young.  But 
we  forget  our  debt  when  the  chickens  disap- 
[290] 


pear,  no  matter  how  few  we  lose.  Shall  we  ever 
learn  to  say,  when  the  redtail  swoops  among  the 
pigeons,  when  the  rabbits  get  into  the  cabbage, 
when  the  robins  rifle  the  cherry-trees,  and  when  a 
skunk  helps  himself  to  a  hen  for  his  Thanksgiving 
dinner— shall  we  ever  learn  to  love  and  under- 
stand the  fitness  of  things  out  of  doors  enough 
to  say, 

But  then,  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live? 

The  skunk  is  a  famous  digger.  There  are  gi- 
gantic stories  in  Maine,  telling  how  he  has  been 
seen  to  escape  the  hound  by  digging  himself 
out  of  sight  in  the  middle  of  an  open  field.  I 
have  never  tried  to  run  down  a  skunk,  and  so 
never  gave  one  the  opportunity  of  showing  me 
all  he  is  capable  of  as  a  lightning  excavator  j 
but,  unless  all  my  experience  is  wrong,  a  skunk 
would  rather  fight  or  run  or  even  die  than  exert 
himself  to  the  extent  of  digging  a  home.  In  the 
majority  of  cases  their  lairs  are  made  by  other 
paws  than  their  own. 

One  of  the  skunk's  common  tricks  is  to  take 
up  his  abode  with  a  woodchuck.  As  wood- 
chucks,  without  exception,  are  decent  sort  of 
[291] 


folk,  they  naturally  object ;  but  the  unwelcome 
visitor,  like  Tar  Baby,  says  nothing  $  simply 
gives  his  host  the  privilege  of  remaining  in 
his  own  house  if  he  chooses.  He  chooses  to 
go,  of  course,  and  the  easy-minded  interloper 
settles  down  comfortably  at  home.  But  it  is  not 
long  before  a  second  wanderer  chances  upon  this 
hole,  and,  without  thanks  or  leave,  shares  the 
burrow  with  the  first.  This  often  goes  on  until 
the  den  is  crowded— until  some  farmer's  boy  digs 
out  a  round  half-dozen. 

From  such  a  lair  as  headquarters  the  skunks 
forage/  at  night,  each  making  off  alone  to  a  fa- 
vorite haunt,  and  returning  before  daybreak  for 
safety  and  sleep.  But  a  peculiar  thing  about 
these  lodges,  as  about  the  family  den  in  the  ra- 
vine, is  their  freedom  from  the  hateful  musk. 
One  rarely  detects  any  odor  about  a  skunk's 
burrow.  I  had  been  within  twenty  feet  of  this 
one  on  the  island  most  of  the  afternoon  and  had 
not  known  it.  How  are  a  number  of  skunks 
living  in  a  single  burrow  for  weeks  able  to  keep 
it  sweet,  when  one  of  them,  by  simply  passing 
through  a  ten-acre  field  of  blossoming  clover,  will 
make  it  unendurable  ?  It  certainly  speaks  well 
[292] 


for  the  creature's  personal  cleanliness,  or  else  is 
proof  of  his  extreme  caution  against  discovery. 

The  odor  will  easily  carry  with  the  wind  three 
miles.  On  the  spot  where  the  animal  has  been 
shot,  you  will  remember  it  a  twelvemonth  after 
whenever  it  rains.  "Do  you  want  to  know  how 
to  shoot  a  skunk  on  your  kitchen  steps  and  never 
know  it  twenty-four  hours  after?"  queried  my 
Kennebec  authority  on  these  beasts.  I  did,  of 
course,  though  I  never  expected  a  skunk  to  take 
up  his  stand  on  my  kitchen  steps  and  compel  me 
to  despatch  him. 

"  Well,  shoot  him  dead,  of  course  ;  then  let  him 
lie  there  three  days.  All  that  smell  will  come 
back  to  him,  no  matter  how  far  off  it 's  gone. 
It  '11  all  come  up  out  of  the  boards,  too,  and  go 
into  him,  and  you  can  carry  him  away  by  the 
tail  and  never  know  a  skunk  's  been  on  the 
farm.  It  's  curious  how  a  skunk  can  make  a 
smell,  but  never  have  any  ;  and  it 's  curious  how 
it  all  returns  to  him  when  he  dies.  Most  things 
are  curious,  ain't  they?"  I  agreed  that  they 
were. 

But  to  return  to  my  family  in  the  ravine. 
The  next  morning  I  went  back  to  the  glen  and 
[293] 


caught  three  of  these  young  ones.  They  made 
no  resistance,— merely  warned  me  to  be  careful, 
—and  I  took  them  to  the  house.  For  several 
days  I  fed  them  fish  and  fruit  until  they  became 
so  tame  that  I  could  handle  them  without  cau- 
tion. But  they  were  hopelessly  dull  and  uninter- 
esting pets,  never  showing  the  least  intelligence, 
curiosity,  or  affection.  I  finally  turned  them 
loose  among  their  native  rocks,  and  they  strayed 
off  as  unconcerned  as  if  they  had  not  spent  two 
weeks  away  from  home,  shut  up  in  a  soap-box. 

There  seems  to  be  little  excuse,  in  this  broad 
land  of  opportunity,  for  any  one's  going  into 
skunk-tarming  for  a  business  ;  but  these  animals 
have  a  good  market  value,  and  so,  in  spite  of  a 
big  country  and  rich  resources,  our  hands  are  so 
eager  for  gold  that  every  summer  we  hear  of  new 
skunk  farms.  Still,  why  not  raise  skunks'? 
They  are  more  easily  kept  than  pigs  or  pigeons  ; 
they  multiply  rapidly  ;  their  pelts  make  good  (?) ' 
mar  ten -skins ;  and  I  see  no  reason  why  any 
one  having  a  piece  of  woodland  with  a  stream 
in  it,  and  a  prairie  or  an  ocean  on  each  side  of 
it,  could  not  fence  it  in,  stock  it  with  skunks,  and 
do  a  profitable  and  withal  an  interesting  business. 
[294] 


FROM   KIVER-OOZE   TO   TKEE-TOP 


FROM   RIVER-OOZE   TO   TKEE-TOP 

THERE  are  many  lovers  of  the  out-of-doors 
who  court  her  in  her  robes  of  roses  and  in 
her  blithe  and  happy  hours  of  bird-song  only. 
Now  a  lover  that  never  sees  her  barefoot  in  the 
meadow,  that  never  hears  her  commonplace 
chatter  at  the  frog-pond,  that  never  finds  her  in 
her  lowly,  humdrum  life  among  the  toads  and 
snakes,  has  little  genuine  love  for  his  mistress. 

To  know  the  pixy  when  one  sees  it,  to  call  the 
long  Latin  name  of  the  ragweed,  to  exclaim  over 
the  bobolink's  song,  to  go  into  ecstasies  at  a  glori- 
ous sunset,  is  not,  necessarily,  to  love  nature  at 
all.  One  who  does  all  this  sincerely,  but  who 
stuffs  his  ears  to  the  din  of  the  spring  frogs,  is 
in  love  with  nature's  pretty  clothes,  her  dainty 
airs  and  fine  ways.  Her  warm,  true  heart  lies 
deeper  down.  When  one  has  gone  down  to  that, 
then  a  March  without  peepers  will  be  as  lone- 
[297] 


some  as  a  crowd  without  friends  ;  then  an  orchard 
without  the  weather-wise  hyla  can  never  make 
good  his  place  with  mere  apples ;  and  the  front 
door  without  a  solemn,  philosophic  toad  beneath 
its  step  will  lack  something  quite  as  needful  to 
its  evening  peace  and  homeness  as  it  lacks  when 
the  old-fashioned  roses  and  the  honeysuckle  are 
gone. 

We  are  not  humble  nor  thoughtful  out  of 
doors.  There  is  too  much  sentiment  in  our  pas- 
sion for  nature.  We  make  colored  plates  and 
poems  to  her.  All  honor  to  the  poets  !  especially 
to  those/  who  look  carefully  and  see  deeply,  like 
Wordsworth  and  Emerson  and  Whitman.  But 
what  the  common  run  of  us  needs,  when  we  go 
a-wooing  nature,  is  not  more  poetry,  but  a  scien- 
tific course  in  biology.  How  a  little  study  in 
comparative  anatomy,  for  instance,  would  reveal 
to  us  the  fearful  and  wonderful  in  the  make-up 
of  all  animal  forms  !  And  the  fearful  and  won- 
derful have  a  meaning  and  a  beauty  which  we 
ought  to  realize. 

We  all  respond  to  the  flowers  and  birds,  for 
they  demand  no  mental  effort.  What  about  the 
snakes  and  frogs?  Do  we  shiver  at  them?  Do 
[298] 


we  more  than  barely  endure  them  I  No  one  can 
help  feeling  the  comfort  and  sympathy  of  the 
bluebird.  The  very  drifts  soften  as  he  appears. 
He  conies  some  March  morning  in  a  flurry  of 
snow,  or  drops  down  out  of  a  cheerless,  soaking 
sky,  and  assures  us  that  he  has  just  left  the  South 
and  has  hurried  ahead  at  considerable  hazard  to 
tell  us  that  spring  is  on  the  way.  Yet,  here  is 
another  voice,  earlier  than  the  bluebird's  often, 
with  the  bluebird's  message,  and  with  even  more 
than  the  bluebird's  authority ;  but  who  will 
listen  to  a  frog?  A  prophet  is  not  without 
honor  save  in  his  own  country.  One  must  needs 
have  wings  and  come  from  a  foreign  land  to  be 
received  among  us  as  a  prophet  of  the  spring. 
Suppose  a  little  frog  noses  his  way  up  through 
the  stiff,  cold  mud,  bumps  against  the  ice,  and 
pipes,  Spring!  spring!  spring!  Has  he  not 
as  much  claim  upon  our  faith  as  a  bird  that  drops 
down  from  no  one  knows  where,  with  the  same 
message?  The  bluebird  comes  because  he  has 
seen  the  spring ;  Hyla  comes  because  he  has  the 
spring  in  his  heart.  He  that  receives  Hyla  in 
the  name  of  a  prophet  shall  receive  a  prophet's 
reward. 

[299] 


'Spring!  spring!  spring!'" 


, 


For  me  there  is  no  clearer  call  in  all  the  year 
than  that  of  the  hylas7  in  the  break-up  days  of 
March.  The  sap  begins  to  start  in  niy  roots  at 
the  first  peep.  There  is  something  in  their  brave 
little  summons,  as  there  is  in  the  silvery  light  011 
the  pussy-willows,  that  takes  hold  on  my  hope 
and  courage,  and  makes  the  March  mud  good  to 
tramp  through.  And  this  despite  the  fact  that 
these  early  hylas  so  aggravated  my  first  attack 
of  homesickness  that  I  thought  it  was  to  be  fatal. 
The  second  night  I  ever  spent  away  from  home 
and  my  mother  was  passed  with  old  Mrs.  Tribbet, 
who  had  a  large  orchard,  behind  which  was  a 
frog-pond.  In  vain  did  she  stay  me  with  raisins 
and  comfort  me  with  apples.  I  was  sick  for 
home.  And  those  frogs  !  When  the  guineas  got 
quiet,  how  dreadful  they  made  the  long  May 
twilight  with  their  shrieking,  strangling,  home- 
sick cries  !  After  all  these  years  I  cannot  listen 
to  them  in  the  evenings  of  early  spring  without 
catching  an  echo  from  the  back  of  that  orchard, 
without  just  a  throb  of  that  pain  so  near  to 
breaking  my  heart. 

Close  by,  in  a  corner  lot  between  the  two 
cross-roads  of  the  village,  lies  a  wretched  little 
[301] 


puddle,  the  home  of  countless  hylas  until  the 
June  suns  dry  it  up.  Among  the  hundred  or 
more  people  who  live  in  the  vicinity  and  who 
pass  the  pond  almost  daily,  I  think  that  I  am 
the  only  one  who,  until  recently,  was  sure  he 
had  ever  seen  a  peeper,  and  knew  that  they  were 
neither  tadpoles,  salamanders,  nor  turtles.  As 
I  was  standing  by  the  puddle,  one  May  day,  a 
good  neighbor  came  along  and  stopped  with  me. 
The  chorus  was  in  full  blast— cricket-frogs,  Pick- 
ering's frogs,  spring  frogs,  and,  leading  them  all, 
the  melancholy  quaver  of  Bufo,  the  "  hop-toad." 

"What  is  it  that  makes  the  dreadful  noise?" 
my  neighbor  asked,  meaning,  I  knew,  by  "dread- 
ful noise,"  the  song  of  the  toad.  I  handed  her 
my  opera-glass,  pointed  out  the  minstrel  with  the 
doleful  bagpipe  sprawling  at  the  surface  of  the 
water,  and,  after  sixty  years  of  wondering,  she 
saw  with  immense  satisfaction  that  one  part  in 
this  familiar  spring  medley  was  taken  by  the 
common  toad. 

Sixty  springs  are  a  good  many  springs  to  be 

finding  out  the  author  of  so  well-known  a  sound 

as  this  woeful  strain  of  the  serenading  toad  ;  but 

more  than  half  a  century  might  be  spent  in 

[302] 


catching  a  cricket-frog  at  his  song.  I  tried  to 
make  my  neighbor  see  one  that  was  clinging  to 
a  stick  in  the  middle  of  the  puddle  ;  but  her  eyes 


"  A  wretched  little  puddle." 

were  dim.  Deft  hands  have  dressed  these  peep- 
ers. We  have  heard  them  by  the  meadowful 
every  spring  of  our  life,  and  yet  the  fingers  of 
one  hand  number  more  than  the  peepers  we  have 
seen.  One  day  I  bent  over  three  lily-pads  till 
[303] 


nearly  blind,  trying  to  make  out  a  cricket-frog 
that  was  piping  all  the  while  somewhere  near  or 
upon  them.  At  last,  in  despair,  I  made  a  dash 
at  the  pads,  only  to  see  the  wake  as  the  peeper 
sank  to  the  bottom  an  instant  before  my  net 
struck  the  surface. 

The  entire  frog  family  is  as  protectively  col- 
ored as  this  least  member,  the  cricket-frog.  They 
all  carry  fern-seed  in  their  pockets  and  go  invis- 
ible. Notice  the  wood-frog  with  his  tan  suit  and 
black  cheeks.  He  is  a  mere  sound  as  he  hops 
about  over  the  brown  leaves.  I  have  had  him 
jump  out  of  the  way  of  my  feet  and  vanish  while 
I  stared  hard  at  him.  He  lands  with  legs  ex- 
tended, purposely  simulating  the  shape  of  the 
ragged,  broken  leaves,  and  offers,  as  the  only 
clue  for  one's  baffled  eyes,  the  moist  glisten  as 
his  body  dissolves  against  the  dead  brown  of  the 
leaf-carpet.  The  tree-toad,  Hyla  versicolor,  still 
more  strikingly  blends  with  his  surroundings,  for, 
to  a  certain  extent,  he  can  change  color  to  match 
the  bark  upon  which  he  sits.  More  than  once,  in 
climbing  apple-trees,  I  have  put  my  hand  upon 
a  tree-toad,  not  distinguishing  it  from  the  patches 
of  gray-green  lichen  upon  the  limbs.  But  there 
[304] 


is  less  of  wonder  in  the  tree-toad's  ability  to 
change  his  colors  than  in  the  way  he  has  of 
changing  his  clothes.  He  is  never  troubled 
with  the  getting  of  a  new  suit ;  his  labor  comes 
in  caring  for  his  old  ones.  It  is  curious  how  he 
disposes  of  his  cast-off  clothes. 

One  day  late  in  autumn  I  picked  up  a  tree- 
toad  that  was  stiff  and  nearly  dead  with  cold.  I 
put  him  in  a  wide-mouthed  bottle  to  thaw,  and 
found  by  evening  that  he  was  quite  alive,  sitting 
with  his  toes  turned  in,  looking  much  surprised 
at  his  new  quarters.  He  made  himself  at  home, 
however,  and  settled  down  comfortably,  ready 
for  what  might  happen  next. 

The  following  day  he  climbed  up  the  side  of 
the  bottle  and  slept  several  hours,  his  tiny  disked 
toes  holding  him  as  easily  and  restfully  as  if  he 
were  stretched  upon  a  feather-bed.  I  turned  him 
upside  down ;  but  he  knew  nothing  of  it  until 
later  when  he  awoke  ;  then  he  deliberately  turned 
round  with  his  head  up  and  went  to  sleep  again. 
At  night  he  was  wide  awake,  winking  and  blink- 
ing at  the  lamp,  and  watching  me  through  his 
window  of  green  glass. 

A  few  nights  after  his  rescue  Hyla  sat  upon  the 
20  [305] 


bottom  of  his  bottle  in  a  very  queer  attitude. 
His  eyes  were  drawn  in,  his  head  was  bent  down, 
his  feet  rolled  up— his  whole  body  huddled  into 
a  ball  less  than  half  its  normal  size.  After  a  time 
he  began  to  kick  and  gasp  as  if  in  pain,  rolling 
and  unrolling  himself  desperately.  I  thought  he 
was  dying.  He  would  double  up  into  a  bunch, 
then  kick  out  suddenly  and  stand  up  on  his  hind 
legs  with  his  mouth  wide  open  as  if  trying  to 
swallow  something.  He  was  trying  to  swallow 
something,  and  the  thing  had  stuck  on  the  way. 
It  was  a  kind  of  cord,  and  ran  out  of  each  corner 
of  his  inouth,  passing  over  his  front  legs,  thin- 
ning and  disappearing  most  strangely  along  his 
sides. 

With  the  next  gulp  I  saw  the  cord  slip  down 
a  little,  and,  as  it  did  so,  the  skin  along  his  sides 
rolled  up.  It  was  his  old  suit !  He  was  taking 
it  off  for  a  new  one  ;  and,  instead  of  giving  it  to 
the  poor,  he  was  trying  to  economize  by  eating 
it.  What  a  meal !  What  a  way  to  undress ! 
What  curious  economy ! 

Long  ago  the  naturalists  told  us  that  the  toads 
ate  their  skins— after  shedding  them  ;  but  it  was 
never  made  plain  to  me  that  they  ate  them  while 
[306] 


changing  them — indeed,  swallowed  them  off! 
Three  great  gulps  more  and  the  suit— shirt, 
shoes,  stockings,  and  all— disappeared.  Then 
Hyla  winked,  drew  his  clean  sleeve  across  his 
mouth,  and  settled  back  with  the  very  air  of  one 
who  has  magnificently  sent  away  the  waiter  with 
the  change. 

Four  days  later  Hyla  ate  up  this  new  suit.  I 
saw  the  entire  operation  this  time.  It  was  al- 
most a  case  of  surgery.  He  pulled  the  skin  over 
his  head  and  neck  with  his  fore  feet  as  if  it  were 
a  shirt,  then  crammed  it  into  his  mouth  ;  kicked 
it  over  his  back  next ;  worked  out  his  feet  and 
legs  ;  then  ate  it  off  as  before.  The  act  was  ac- 
complished with  difficulty,  and  would  have  been 
quite  impossible  had  not  Hyla  found  the  most 
extraordinary  of  tongues  in  his  head.  Next  to 
the  ability  to  speak  Russian  with  the  tongue 
comes  the  power  to  skin  one's  self  with  it.  The 
tree -toad  cannot  quite  croak  Russian,  but  he  can 
skin  himself  with  his  tongue.  Unlike  ours,  his 
tongue  is  hung  at  the  front  end,  with  the  free 
end  forked  and  pointing  toward  his  stomach. 
When  my  little  captive  had  crammed  his  mouth 
full  of  skin,  he  stuck  this  fork  of  a  tongue  into  it 
[307] 


"  He  was  trying   to 
swallow  something." 


and  forced  it  down  his  throat  and  held  it  down 
while  he  kicked  and  squirmed  out  of  it. 

Though  less  beautifully  clothed  than  Hyla,  our 
common  toad,  Bufo,  is  just  as  carefully  clothed. 
Where  the  rain  drips  from  the  eaves,  clean, 
narrow  lines  of  pebbles  have  been  washed  out  of 
the  lawn.  On  one  side  of  the  house  the  shade 
lies  all  day  long  and  the  grass  is  cool  and  damp. 
Here,  in  the  shade,  a  large  toad  has  lived  for  two 
summers.  I  rarely  pass  that  way  without  seeing 
him,  well  hidden  in  the  grass.  For  several  days 
lately  he  had  been  missing,  when,  searching  more 
closely  one  morning,  I  found  him  sunk  to  the 
level  of  his  back  in  the  line  of  pebbles,  his  spots 
and  the  glands  upon  his  neck  so  mingling  with 
the  varied  collection  of  gravel  about  him  that 
only  a  practised  eye,  and  that  sharp  with  expec- 
tation, could  have  made  him  out. 

In  a  newly  plowed  field,  with  some  of  the  fresh 
soil  sticking  to  him,  what  thing  could  look  more 
like  a  clod  than  this  brown,  shapeless  lump  of  a 
toad!  But  there  is  a  beauty  even  in  this  un- 
lovely form  ;  for  here  is  perfect  adaptability. 

Our  canons  of  the  beautiful  are  false  if  they 
do  not  in  some  way  include  the  toad.  Shall  we 
[308] 


measure  all  the  out-of-doors  by  the  linnet's  song, 
the  cardinal-flower's  flame,  and  the  hay-field's 
odor?  Deeper,  wider,  more  fundamental  and 
abiding  than  these  standards,  lie  the  intellectual 
principles  of  plan  and  purpose  and  the  intellec- 
tual quality  of  perfect  execution.  We  shall  love 
not  alone  with  all  our  heart,  but  with  all  our 
mind  as  well.  If  we  judge  the  world  beautiful 
by  the  superficial  standard  of  what  happens  to 
please  our  eye,  we  shall  see  no  more  of  the  world 
than  we  do  of  the  new  moon.  Whole  classes  of 
animals  and  wide  regions  of  the  earth's  surface 
must,  by  this  test,  be  excluded.  The  only  way 
the  batrachians  could  possibly  come  in  would 
be  by  rolling  the  frogs  in  bread-crumbs  and  fry- 
ing them.  Treated  thus,  they  look  good  and 
taste  good,  but  this  is  all  that  can  be  said  for  the 
entire  family.  Studied,  however,  from  the  single 
view-point  of  protective  coloring,  or  again,  as 
illustrating  the  ease  with  which  the  clumsiest 
forms  can  be  fitted  to  the  widest  variety  of  con- 
ditions, the  toads  do  not  suffer  by  any  compari- 
son. In  the  light  of  such  study,  Bufo  loses  his 
repulsiveness  and  comes  to  have  a  place  quite  as 
unique  as  the  duckbill's,  and  a  personality  not 
[309] 


less  fascinating  than  the  swallow's  or  the  gray 
squirrel's. 

However,  the  toad  to  the  most  of  us  is  anything 
but  a  poem.  What,  indeed,  looks  less  lovely,  less 
nimble  and  buoyant,  more  chained  to  the  earth, 
than  a  toad  f  But  stretch  the  least  web  between 
his  toes,  lengthen  his  hind  legs,  and— over  he 
goes,  the  leopard-frog,  champion  high  diver  of 
the  marsh  !  Or,  instead  of  the  web,  tip  his  toes 
with  the  tiniest  disks,  and— there  he  swings, 
Pickering's  little  hyla,  clinging  as  easily  to  the 
under  surface  of  that  oak-leaf  high  in  the  tree  as 
a  fly  clings  to  the  kitchen  ceiling. 

Whdn  a  boy  I  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  flag- 
pole on  one  of  the  State  geological  survey  sta- 
tions. The  pole  rose  far  above  the  surrounding 
pines— the  highest  point  for  miles  around.  As 
I  clinched  the  top  of  the  staff,  gripping  my  fin- 
gers into  the  socket  for  the  flag-stick,  I  felt 
something  cold,  and  drawing  myself  up,  found  a 
tree-toad  asleep  in  the  hole.  Under  him  was  a 
second  toad,  and  under  the  second  a  third— all 
dozing  up  here  on  the  very  topmost  tip  of  all 
the  region. 

From  the  river-ooze  to  the  tree-top,  nature 
[310] 


carries  this  toad-form  simply  by  a  thin  web  be- 
tween the  toes,  or  by  tiny  disks  at  their  tips. 
And  mixing  her  greens  and  browns  with  just  a 
dash  of  yellow,  she  paints  them  all  so  skilfully 
that,  upon  a  lily-pad,  beside  a  lump  of  clay,  or 
against  the  lichened  limb  of  an  old  apple-tree, 
each  sits  as  securely  as  Perseus  in  the  charmed 
helmet  that  made  him  invisible. 

The  frogs  have  innumerable  enemies  among 
the  water-birds,  the  fish,  the  snakes,  and  such 
animals  as  the  fisher,  coon,  possum,  and  mink. 
The  toads  fortunately  are  supplied  with  glands 
behind  their  heads  whose  secretion  is  hateful  to 
most  of  their  foes,  though  it  seems  to  be  no 
offense  whatever  to  the  snakes.  A  toad's  only 
chance,  when  a  snake  is  after  him,  lies  in  hiding. 
I  once  saw  a  race  between  a  toad  and  an  adder 
snake,  however,  in  which  the  hopper  won. 

One  bright  May  morning  I  was  listening  to  the 
music  of  the  church  bells,  as  it  floated  out  from 
the  city  and  called  softly  over  the  fields,  when 
my  reverie  was  interrupted  by  a  sharp  squeak 
and  a  thud  beside  the  log  on  which  I  sat ;  some- 
thing dashed  over  my  foot ;  and  I  turned  to 
catch  sight  of  a  toad  bouncing  past  the  log,  mak- 
[311] 


ing  hard  for  the  brush  along  the  fence.  He 
scarcely  seemed  to  touch  the  ground,  but 
skimmed  over  the  grass  as  if  transformed  into  a 
midget  jack-rabbit.  His  case  was  urgent  5  and 
little  wonder  !  At  the  opposite  end  of  the  log, 
raised  four  or  five  inches  from  the  grass,  her  eyes 
hard  glittering,  her  nose  tilted  in  the  air,  and 
astonishment  all  over  her  face,  swayed  the  flat, 
ugly  head  of  a  hognose-adder.  Evidently  she, 
too,  had  never  seen  a  toad  get  away  in  any  such 
time  before ;  and  after  staring  a  moment,  she 
turned  under  the  log  and  withdrew  from  the 
race,  beaten. 

Hungry  snakes  and  hot,  dusty  days  are  death 
to  the  toads.  Bufo  would  almost  as  soon  find 
himself  at  the  bottom  of  a  well  as  upon  a  dusty 
road  in  blazing  sunshine.  His  day  is  the  night. 
He  is  not  particular  about  the  moon.  All  he 
asks  is  that  the  night  be  warm,  that  the  dew  lay 
the  dust  and  dampen  the  grass,  and  that  the  in- 
sects be  out  in  numbers.  At  night  the  snakes  are 
asleep,  and  so  are  most  of  those  ugly,  creaking 
beasts  with  rolling  iron  feet  that  come  crushing 
along  their  paths.  There  is  no  foe  abroad  at 
night,  and  life,  during  these  dark,  quiet  hours, 
[312] 


has  even  for  a  toad  something  like  a  dash  of 
gaiety. 

In  one  of  the  large  pastures  not  far  away 
stands  a  pump.  It  is  shaded  by  an  ancient 
apple  -tree,  under  which,  when  the  days  are 
hottest,  the  cattle  gather  to  doze  and  dream. 
They  have  worn  away  the  grass  about  the  mossy 
trough,  and  the  water,  slopping  over,  keeps  the 
spot  cool  and  muddy  the  summer  through.  Here 
the  toads  congregate  from  every  quarter  of  the 
great  field.  I  stretched  myself  out  flat  on  the 
grass  one  night  and  watched  them  in  the  moon- 
light. There  must  have  been  fifty  here  that 
night,  hopping  about  over  the  wet  place— as 
grotesque  a  band  as  ever  met  by  woods  or  waters. 

We  need  no  "second  sight,"  no  pipe  of  Pan, 
no  hills  of  Latmos  with  a  flock  to  feed,  to  find 
ourselves  back  in  that  enchanted  world  of  the 
kelpies  and  satyrs.  All  we  need  to  do  is  to  use 
the  eyes  and  ears  we  have,  and  haunt  our  hills 
by  morning  and  by  moonlight.  Here  in  the 
moonlight  around  the  old  pump  I  saw  goblins, 
if  ever  goblins  were  seen  in  the  light  of  our 
moon. 

There  was  not  a  croak,  not  a  squeak,  not  the 
[313] 


slightest  sound,  save  the  small  pit-pat,  pit-pat, 
made  by  their  hopping.  There  may  have  been 
some  kind  of  toad  talk  among  them,  but  listen 
never  so  closely,  I  could  not  catch  a  syllable 
of  it. 

Where  did  they  all  come  from?  How  did 
they  find  their  way  to  this  wet  spot  over  the 
hills  and  across  the  acres  of  this  wide  pasture? 
You  could  walk  over  the  field  in  the  daytime 
and  have  difficulty  in  finding  a  single  toad  ;  but 
here  at  night,  as  I  lay  watching,  every  few  min- 
utes one  would  hop  past  me  in  the  grass ;  or 
coming  down  the  narrow  cow-paths  in  the  faint 
light  1  could  see  a  wee  black  bunch  bobbing 
leisurely  along  with  a  hop  and  a  stop,  moving 
slowly  toward  the  pump  to  join  the  band  of  his 
silent  friends  under  the  trough. 

Not  because  there  was  more  food  at  the  pump, 
nor  for  the  joy  of  gossip,  did  the  toads  meet  here. 
The  one  thing  necessary  to  their  existence  is 
water,  and  doubtless  many  of  these  toads  had 
crossed  this  pasture  of  fifteen  acres  simply  to  get 
a  drink.  I  have  known  a  toad  to  live  a  year 
without  food,  and  another  to  die  in  three  days 
for  lack  of  water.  And  yet  this  thirsty  little 
[314] 


beast  never  knows  the  pleasure  of  a  real  drink, 
because  he  does  not  know  how  to  drink. 

I  have  kept  toads  confined  in  cages  for  weeks 
at  a  time,  never  allowing  them  water  when  I 
could  not  watch  them  closely,  and  I  never  saw 
one  drink.  Instead,  they  would  sprawl  out  in 
the  saucer  on  their  big,  expansive  bellies,  and 
soak  themselves  full,  as  they  did  here  on  the 
damp  sand  about  the  pump. 

Just  after  sunset,  when  the  fireflies  light  up  and 
the  crickets  and  katydids  begin  to  chirp,  the  toad 
that  sleeps  under  my  front  step  hops  out  of  bed, 
kicks  the  sand  off  his  back,  and  takes  a  long  look 
at  the  weather.  He  seems  to  think  as  he  sits 
here  on  the  gravel  walk,  sober  and  still,  with 
his  face  turned  skyward.  What  does  he  think 
about?  Is  he  listening  to  the  chorus  of  the 
crickets,  to  the  whippoorwills,  or  is  it  for  supper 
he  is  planning  f  It  may  be  of  the  vicissitudes  of 
toad  life,  and  of  the  mutability  of  all  sublunary 
things,  that  he  meditates.  Who  knows?  Some 
day  perhaps  we  shall  have  a  batrachian  psychol- 
ogy, and  I  shall  understand  what  it  is  that  my 
door-step  lodger  turns  over  and  over  in  his  mind 
as  he  watches  the  coming  of  the  stars.  All  I  can 
[315] 


do  now  is  to  minute  his  cogitations,  and  I  remem- 
ber one  evening  when  he  sat  thinking  and  wink- 
ing a  full  hour  without  making  a  single  hop. 

As  the  darkness  comes  down  he  makes  off  for 
a  night  of  bug-hunting.  At  the  first  peep  of 
dawn,  bulging  plump  at  the  sides,  he  turns  back 
for  home.  Home  to  a  toad  usually  means  any 
place  that  offers  sleep  and  safety  for  the  day ; 
but  if  undisturbed,  like  the  one  under  the  step, 
he  will  return  to  the  same  spot  throughout  the 
summer.  This  chosen  spot  may  be  the  door-step, 
the  cracks  between  the  bricks  of  a  well,  or  the 
dense  leaves  of  a  strawberry -bed. 

In  tne  spring  of  1899  so  very  little  rain  fell 
between  March  and  June  that  I  had  to  water 
my  cucumber-hills.  There  was  scarcely  a  morn- 
ing during  this  dry  spell  that  I  did  not  find  sev- 
eral toads  tucked  away  for  the  day  in  these  moist 
hills.  These  individuals  had  no  regular  home, 
like  the  one  under  the  step,  but  hunted  up  the 
coolest,  shadiest  places  in  the  soft  soil  and  made 
new  beds  for  themselves  every  morning. 

Their  bed-making  is  very  funny,  but  not 
likely  to  meet  the  approval  of  the  housewife. 
Wearied  with  the  night's  hunting,  a  toad  comes 
[316] 


to  the  cool  cucumber-vines  and  proceeds  at  once 
to  kick  himself  into  bed.  He  backs  and  kicks 
and  elbows  into  the  loose  sand  as  far  as  he  can, 
then  screws  and  twists  till  he  is  worked  out  of 
sight  beneath  the  soil,  hind  end  foremost.  Here 
he  lies,  with  only  his  big  pop-eyes  sticking  out, 
half  asleep,  half  awake.  If  a  hungry  adder 
crawls  along,  he  simply  pulls  in  his  eyes,  the 
loose  sand  falls  over  them,  and  the  snake 
passes  on. 

When  the  nights  begin  to  grow  chilly  and 
there  are  threatenings  of  frost,  the  toads  hunt  up 
winter  quarters,  and  hide  deep  down  in  some 
warm  burrow— till  to-morrow  if  the  sun  comes 
out  hot,  or,  it  may  be,  not  to  wake  until  next 
April.  Sometimes  an  unexpected  frost  catches 
them,  when  any  shelter  must  do,  when  even  their 
snake-fear  is  put  aside  or  forgotten.  " Misery 
acquaints  a  man  with  strange  bedfellows,"  said 
Trinculo,  as  he  crawled  in  with  Caliban  from  the 
storm.  So  might  the  toad  say  in  an  early  frost. 

The  workmen  in  a  sandstone-quarry  near  by 

dug  out  a  bunch  of  toads  one  winter,  all  mixed 

up  with  a  bunch  of  adders.     They  were  wriggled 

and  squirmed  together  in  a  perfect  jumble  of 

[317] 


legs,  heads,  and  tails— all  in  their  dead  winter 
sleep.  Their  common  enemy,  the  frost,  had 
taken  them  unawares,  and  driven  them  like 
friends  into  the  crevice  of  the  rocks,  where  they 
would  have  slept  together  until  the  spring  had 
not  the  quarrymen  unearthed  them. 

There  is  much  mystery  shrouding  this  humble 
batrachian.  Somewhere  in  everybody's  imagina- 
tion is  a  dark  cell  harboring  a  toad.  Heading 
down  through  literature,  it  is  astonishing  how 
often  the  little  monster  has  hopped  into  it. 
There  is  chance  for  some  one  to  make  a  big  book 
of  the  fable  and  folk-lore  that  has  been  gathering 
througn  the  ages  about  the  toads.  The  stories 
of  the  jewels  in  their  heads,  of  their  age-long  en- 
tombments in  the  rocks,  of  the  warts  and  spells 
they  induce,  of  their  eating  fire  and  dropping 
from  the  clouds,  are  legion. 

And  there  seems  to  be  some  basis  of  fact  for 
all  these  tales.  No  one  has  yet  written  for  us 
the  life-history  of  the  toad.  After  having 
watched  the  tadpole  miracle,  one  is  thoroughly 
prepared  to  see  toads  jump  out  of  the  fire,  tumble 
from  broken  marble  mantles,  and  fall  from  the 
clouds.  I  never  caught  them  in  my  hat  during 
[318], 


a  shower ;  but  I  have  stood  on  Mauricetown 
Bridge,  when  the  big  drops  came  pelting  down, 
and  seen  those  drops  apparently  turn  into  tiny 
toads  as  they  struck  the  planks,  until  the  bridge 
was  alive  with  them !  Perhaps  they  had  been 
hiding  from  the  heat  between  the  cracks  of  the 
planks— but  there  are  people  who  believe  that 
they  came  down  from  the  clouds. 

How,  again,  shall  I  explain  this  bit  of  observa- 
tion ?  More  than  six  years  I  lived  near  a  mud- 
hole  that  dried  up  in  July.  I  passed,  it  almost 
daily.  One  spring  there  was  a  strange  toad- call 
in  the  hole,  a  call  that  I  had  never  heard  any- 
thing like  before— a  deafening,  agonizing  roar, 
hoarse  and  woeful.  I  found  on  investigation  that 
the  water  was  moving  with  spade-foot  toads. 
Two  days  later  the  hole  was  still.;  every  toad 
was  gone.  They  disappeared ;  and  though  I 
kept  that  little  puddle  under  watch  for  several 
seasons  after  that,  I  have  not  known  a  spade-foot 
to  appear  there  since. 

The  water  was  almost  jellied  with  their  spawn, 

and  a  little  later  was  swarming  with  spade-foot 

tadpoles.     Then  it  began  to  dry  up,  and  some  of 

the  tadpoles  were  left  stranded  in  the  deep  foot- 

[319] 


prints  of  the  cows  along  the  edge  of  the  hole. 
Just  as  fast  as  the  water  disappeared  in  these 
foot-prints,  the  tails  of  the  tadpoles  were  ab- 
sorbed and  legs  formed,  and  they  hopped  away 
—some  of  them  a  week  before  their  brothers, 
that  were  hatched  at  the  same  time,  but  who 
had  stayed  in  the  middle  of  the  pond,  where  the 
deeper  water  allowed  them  a  longer  babyhood 
for  the  use  of  their  tails.  So  swiftly,  under  pres- 
sure, can  nature  work  with  this  adaptable  body 
of  the  toad ! 

Long  before  the  sun-baked  mud  began  to 
crack  these  young  ones  had  gone— where?  And 
whence^  came  their  parents,  and  whither  went 
they  ?  When  will  they  return  ? 


[320] 


A   BUZZARDS'    BANQUET 


21 


In  a  state  of  soured  silence. 


A   BUZZAKDS'   BANQUET 

IS  there  anything  ugly  out  of  doors?  Can 
the  ardent,  sympathetic  lover  of  nature  ever 
find  her  unlovely?  We  know  that  she  is  su- 
premely utilitarian,  and  we  have  only  wonder 
and  worship  for  her  prodigal  and  perfect  econ- 
omy. But  does  she  always  couple  beauty  with 
her  utility  I 

To  her  real  lover  nature  is  never  tiresome  nor 
uninteresting ;  but  often  she  is  most  fascinating 
when  veiled.  She  has  moods  and  tempers  and 
habits,  even  physical  blemishes,  that  are  fre- 
quently discovered  to  the  too  pressing  suitor ; 
and  though  these  may  quicken  his  interest  and 
faith,  they  often  dissipate  that  halo  of  perfection 
with  which  first  fancy  clothed  her.  This  inti- 
macy, this  "seeing  the  very  pulse  of  the  machine," 
is  what  spoils  poets  like  Burroughs  and  Thoreau  : 
spoils  them  for  poets  to  make  them  the  truer 
philosophers. 

[32.3] 


Like  the  spots  on  the  sun,  all  of  nature's  other 
blemishes  disappear  in  the  bright  blaze  of  her 
loveliness  when  viewed  through  a  veil,  whether 
of  shadows,  or  mists,  or  distance.  This  is  half 
the  secret  of  the  spell  of  the  night,  of  the  mystery 
of  the  sea,  and  the  enchantment  of  an  ancient 
forest.  From  the  depths  of  a  bed  in  the  meadow- 
grass  there  is  perfection  of  motion,  the  very  soul 
of  poetry,  in  the  flight  of  a  buzzard  far  up  under 
the  blue  dome  of  the  sky  ;  but  look  at  the  same 
bald-headed,  snaky-necked  creature  upon  afence- 
stake,  and  you  wonder  how  leagues  into  the 
clouds  ever  hid  his  ugly  visage  from  you.  Mel- 
rose  must  be  seen  by  moonlight.  The  light  to 
see  the  buzzard  in  has  never  been  on  land  or 
sea,  has  come  no  nearer  than  the  high  white 
clouds  that  drift  far  away  in  the  summer  sky. 

From  an  economic  point  of  view  the  buzzard 
is  an  admirable  creation.  So  are  the  robin,  the 
oriole,  and  most  other  birds  5  but  these  are  ad- 
mirable also  from  the  esthetic  point  of  view. 
Not  so  the  buzzard.  He  has  the  wings  of 
Gabriel— the  wings  only ;  for,  truly,  his  neck 
and  head  are  Lucifer's.  If  ugliness  be  an  attri- 
bute of  nature,  then  this  bird  is  its  expression 
[324] 


\ 


Ugliness  incarnate.' 


incarnate.  Not  that  he  is  wicked;  but  worse 
than  wicked— repulsive.  Now  the  jackal  is  a 
mean,  sordid  scamp,  a  miserable  half-dog  beast, 
a  degenerate  that  has  not  fallen  far,  since  he  was 
never  up  very  high.  The  buzzard,  on  the  other 
hand,  ivas  a  bird.  What  he  is  now  is  unnaniable. 
He  has  fallen  back  below  the  reptiles,  into  a 
harpy  with  snake's  head  and  bird's  body— a  vul- 
ture more  horrid  than  any  mythical  monster. 

Having  once  seen  a  turkey-buzzard  feeding, 
one  has  no  difficulty  in  accounting  for  the  origin 
of  those  aangry  creations  of  the  gods  "  that  de- 
filed the  banquets  of  King  Phineus.  If  there  is 
any  holiness  of  beauty,  surely  the  turkey-buzzard 
with  clipped  wing  is  the  most  unholy,  the  most 
utterly  lost  soul  in  the  world. 

One  bright,  warm  day  in  January— a  frog- 
waking  day  in  southern  New  Jersey— I  saw 
the  buzzards  in  unusual  numbers  sailing  over 
the  pines  beyond  Cubby  Hollow.  Hoping  for 
a  glimpse  of  something  social  in  the  silent,  un- 
emotional solitaries,  I  hurried  over  to  the  pines, 
and  passing  through  the  wood,  found  a  score  of 
the  birds  feasting  just  beyond  the  fence  in  an 
open  field. 

[326] 


Creeping  up  close  to  the  scene,  I  quietly  hid 
in  a  big  drift  of  leaves  and  corn-blades  that  the 
winds  had  piled  in  a  corner  of  the  worm-fence, 
and  became  an  uninvited  guest  at  the  strangest, 
gruesomest  assemblage  ever  gathered— a  buz- 
zards' banquet. 

The  silence  of  the  nether  world  wrapped  this 
festive  scene.  Like  ugly  shades  from  across  the 
Styx  came  the  birds,  deepening  the  stillness  with 
their  swishing  wings.  It  was  an  unearthly  pic- 
ture :  the  bare,  stub-stuck  corn-field,  the  gloomy 
pines,  the  silent,  sullen  buzzards  in  the  yellow 
winter  sunlight ! 

The  buzzards  were  stalking  about  when  I  ar- 
rived, all  deliberately  fighting  for  a  place  and  a 
share  of  the  spoil.  They  made  no  noise ;  and 
this  dumb  semblance  of  battle  heightened  the 
unearthliness  of  the  scene.  As  they  lunged 
awkwardly  about,  the  ends  of  their  over-long 
wings  dragged  the  ground,  and  they  tripped  and 
staggered  like  drunken  sailors  on  shore.  The 
hobbling  hitch  of  seals  on  land  could  not  be  less 
graceful  than  the  strut  of  these  fighting  buzzards. 
They  scuffled  as  long  as  there  was  a  scrap  to 
fight  for,  wordless  and  bloodless,  not  even  a  fea- 
[327] 


ther  being  disturbed,  except  those  that  rose  with 
anger,  as  the  hair  rises  on  a  dog's  back.  But  the 
fight  was  terrible  in  its  uncanniness. 


"  Sailing  over  the  pines." 

Upon  the  fence  and  in  the  top  of  a  dead  oak 
near  by  others  settled,  and  passed  immediately 
into  a  state  of  semi-consciousness  that  was  almost 
a  stupor.  Gloomy  and  indifferent  they  sat, 
hunched  up  with  their  heads  between  their  shoul- 
ders, perfectly  oblivious  of  all  mundane  things. 
There  was  no  sign  of  recognition  between  the 
[  328  ] 


birds  until  they  dropped  upon  the  ground  and 
began  fighting.  Let  a  crow  join  a  feeding  group 
of  its  fellows,  and  there  will  be  considerable  caw- 
ing ;  even  a  sparrow,  coming  into  a  flock,  will 
create  some  chirping  :  but  there  was  not  so  much 
as  the  twist  of  a  neck  when  a  new  buzzard  joined 
or  left  this  assemblage.  Each  bird  sat  as  if  he 
were  at  the  center  of  the  Sahara  Desert,  as 
though  he  existed  alone,  with  no  other  buzzard 
on  the  earth. 

There  was  no  hurry,  no  excitement  anywhere  ; 
even  the  struggle  on  the  ground  was  measured 
and  entirely  wooden.  None  of  the  creatures  on 
the  fence  showed  any  haste  to  fall  to  feeding. 
After  alighting  they  would  go  through  the  long 
process  of  folding  up  their  wings  and  packing 
them  against  their  sides ;  then  they  would  sit 
awhile  as  if  trying  to  remember  why  they  had 
come  here  rather  than  gone  to  any  other  place. 
Occasionally  one  would  unfold  his  long  wings  by 
sections,  as  you  would  open  a  jointed  rule,  pause 
a  moment  with  them  outstretched,  and,  with  a 
few  ponderous  flaps,  sail  off  into  the  sky  without 
having  tasted  the  banquet.  Then  another  upon 
the  ground,  having  feasted,  would  run  a  few 
[329] 


steps  to  get  spring,  and  bounding  heavily  into 
the  air,  would  smite  the  earth  with  his  too  long- 
wings,  and  go  swinging  up  above  the  trees.  As 
these  grew  small  and  disappeared  in  the  distance, 
others  came  into  view,  mere  specks  among  the 
clouds,  descending  in  ever-diminishing  circles 
until  they  settled,  without  word  or  greeting,  with 
their  fellows  at  the  banquet. 

The  fence  was  black  with  them.  Evidently 
there  is  news  that  spreads  even  among  these  in- 
communicative ghouls.  Soon  one  settled  upon 
the  fence -stake  directly  over  me.  To  dive  from 
the  clouds  at  the  frightful  rate  of  a  mile  a  min- 
ute, ami,  with  those  mighty  wings,  catch  the 
body  in  the  invisible  net  of  air  about  the  top  of 
a  fence-stake,  is  a  feat  that  stops  one's  breath  to 
see.  No  matter  if,  here  within  my  reach,  his 
suit  of  black  looked  rusty  ;  no  matter  if  his  beak 
was  a  sickly,  milky  white,  his  eyes  big  and  wa- 
tery, and  wrinkled  about  his  small  head  and 
snaky  neck  was  red,  bald  skin,  making  a  visage 
as  ugly  as  could  be  made  without  human  assis- 
tance. In  spite  of  all  this,  I  looked  upon  him 
with  wonder  ;  for  I  had  seen  him  mark  this  slen- 
der pole  from  the  clouds,  and  hurl  himself  toward 
[330] 


it  as  though  to  drive  it  through  him,  and  then, 
between  these  powerful  wings,  light  as  softly 
upon  the  point  as  a  sleeping  babe  is  laid  upon  a 
pillow  from  its  mother's  arms. 

Perhaps  half  a  hundred  now  were  gathered  in 
a  writhing  heap  upon  the  ground.  A  banquet 
this  sans  toasts  and  cheer— the  very  soul  of  the 
unconvivial.  It  was  a  strange  dumb-show  in 
serious  reality,  rather  than  a  banquet,  In  the 
stir  of  their  scuffling,  the  dry  clashing  of  their 
wings,  and  the  noise  of  their  tumbling  and  pull- 
ing and  pecking  as  they  moved  together,  I  could 
hear  low,  serpent-like  hisses.  Except  for  a  sort 
of  half-heard  guttural  croak  at  rare  intervals, 
these  hisses  were  the  only  utterances  that  broke 
the  silence.  So  far  as  I  know,  this  sibilant,  ba- 
trachio -reptilian  language  is  the  meager  limit  of 
the  buzzard's  faculty  of  vocal  expression.  With 
croak  and  hiss  he  warns  and  woos.  And  what 
tender  emotion  has  a  buzzard  too  subtle  for  ex- 
pression by  a  croak  or  hiss?  And  if  he  hates, 
what  need  has  he  of  words— with  such  a  coun- 
tenance ? 

But  he  does  not  hate,  for  he  does  not  love.  To 
be  able  to  hate  implies  a  soul ;  and  the  buzzard 
[331] 


has  no  soul.  Laziness,  gluttony,  uiicleanness, 
have  destroyed  everything  spiritual  in  him.  He 
has  almost  lost  his  language,  so  that  now,  even 
among  his  own  kind,  except  when  surprised,  he 
is  silent.  But  he  needs  no  language,  for  he  is  not 
companionable  ;  there  is  no  trace  of  companion  - 
ableness  in  his  nature.  He  seems  entirely  de- 
void of  aifection  and  fellow-feeling,  showing  no 
interest  whatever  in  any  one  or  anything  save  his 
stomach.  The  seven  evil  spirits  of  the  dyspeptic 
possess  him,  body  and  soul. 

It  must  be  added,  however,  that  the  buzzards 
are  to  some  extent  gregarious.  They  often  fly 
together/ roost  together,  and  nest  in  communities. 
In  this  latter  fact  some  naturalists  would  find 
evidence  of  sociability  j  but  this  manner  of  nest- 
ing is  not  their  habit.  They  more  generally 
nest  a  single  pair  to  a  swamp.  When  they  nest 
in  communities,  it  is  rather  because  the  locality 
is  suitable  than  from  any  desire  to  be  together. 
Yet  they  frequently  choose  the  same  dead  tree, 
or  clump  of  trees,  for  a  roost,  which  may  mean 
that  even  in  a  buzzard's  bosom  there  is  something 
that  calls  for  companionship. 

For  a  nesting-place  the  buzzard  selects  a  swamp 
[332] 


•  A  banquet  this  aaitu  toasts  and  cheer." 


or  remote  and  heavy  timber  where  there  is  slight 
chance  of  molestation.  Here,  in  a  rough  nest  of 
sticks  and  leaves,  upon  the  ground,  in  a  hollow 
log,  upon  a  stump,  or  sometimes  upon  the  bare 
earth,  are  laid  the  two  long,  brown-blotched  eggs 
that  constitute  the  complement. 

"I  once  found  a  nest/'  a  correspondent  writes, 
"in  a  low,  thick  mat  of  briers  and  grape-vines. 
The  female  was  brooding  her  eggs  when  I  came 
upon  the  nest,  and  the  moment  she  caught  sight 
of  me,  instead  of  trying  to  defend  her  treasures 
as  any  normal  mother  would  have  done,  she 
turned  like  a  demon  upon  her  nest,  thrust  her 
beak  intp  one  of  her  eggs,  and  devoured  it  before 
I  could  scare  her  off." 

This  unnatural  act  is  thus  far  without  parallel 
in  my  observation  of  bird  life.  But  it  is  only 
testimony  of  what  one  may  read  in  the  appear- 
ance of  the  buzzard.  The  indolent  habits,  the 
unnamable  tastes,  have  demoralized  and  un- 
mothered  the  creature. 

I  cannot  think  that  the  buzzard  was  so  de- 
praved back  in  the  Beautiful  Garden.  The  curse 
of  Adam  is  on  him  ;  but  instead  of  sweating  like 
the  rest  of  us  and  so  redeeming  himself,  he  is 
[334] 


content  to  be  cursed.  The  bird  has  degenerated. 
You  can  see  in  his  countenance  that  originally 
he  was  not  so  vicious  in  taste  and  habit.  If,  when 
this  office  of  scavenger  was  created,  the  buzzard 
was  installed,  it  was  because  he  was  too  lazy  and 
too  indifferent  to  refuse.  He  may  have  protested 
and  sulked  ;  he  even  continues  to  protest  and 
sulk  :  but  he  has  been  engaged  so  long  in  the 
business  now  that  he  is  utterly  incapable  of 
earning  a  living  in  any  other  way. 

I  saw  all  this  in  the  face  and  attitude  of  the 
buzzard  on  the  stake  above  me.  He  sat  there  as 
if  conscious  that  a  scavenger's  life  was  beneath 
a  bird  of  his  parts  ;  he  looked  mad  with  himself 
for  submitting  to  a  trade  so  degrading,  mad  with 
his  position  among  the  birds :  but  long  ago  he 
recognized  the  difficulty  of  changing  his  place 
and  manner  of  life,  and,  rather  than  make  the 
effort,  he  sank  into  this  state  of  soured  silence. 

That  this  is  the  way  to  read  his  personal  rec- 
ord and  the  history  of  his  clan  is  clear  to  my 
mind,  because  the  bird  is  still  armed  with  the 
great  talons  and  beak  of  the  eagles.  He  was 
once  a  hunter.  Through  generations  of  disuse 
these  weapons  have  become  dulled,  weakened, 
[335] 


and  unfit  for  the  hunt ;  and  the  buzzard,  instead 
of  struggling  for  his  quarry,  is  driven  to  eat  a 
dinner  that  every  other  predatory  bird  would 
refuse. 

Another  proof  of  his  fall  is  that  at  this  late  day 
he  has  a  decided  preference  for  fresh  food.  This 
was  doubtless  the  unspoiled  taste  of  his  ancestors, 
given  with  the  beak  and  talons.  He  is  a  glutton 
and  a  coward,  else  he  would  be  an  eagle  still. 

We  associate  the  turkey-buzzard  with  carrion, 
and  naturally  attribute  his  marvelous  power  of 
finding  food  to  his  sense  of  smell.  Let  a  dead 
animal  be  dragged  into  the  field,  and  in  less  than 
an  hour/  there  will  be  scores  of  these  somber  crea- 
tures gathered  about  it,  when,  in  all  the  reach  of 
the  horizon  for  perhaps  a  week  past,  not  more 
than  one  or  two  have  been  seen  at  any  one  time. 
Did  they  detect  an  odor  miles  away  and  follow 
the  scent  hither?  Possibly.  But  yonder  you 
spy  a  buzzard  sailing  so  far  up  that  he  appears 
no  larger  than  a  swallow.  He  is  descending. 
Watch  where  he  settles.  Lo !  he  is  eating  the 
garter-snake  that  you  killed  in  the  path  a  few 
minutes  ago.  How  did  the  bird  from  that  alti- 
tude discover  so  tiny  a  thing?  He  could  not 
[336] 


"  Floating  withcrat  effort  among  the  clouds." 

have  smelled  it,  for  it  had  no  odor.  He  saw  it. 
It  is  not  by  scent,  but  by  his  astonishing  powers 
of  sight,  that  the  buzzard  finds  his  food. 

One  day  I  carried  a  freshly  killed  chicken  into 
the  field,  and  tying  a  long  string  to  it,  hid  my- 
self near  by  in  a  corn-shock.     Soon  a  buzzard 
passing  overhead  began  to  circle  about  me  :  and 
22  [337] 


I  knew  that  he  had  discovered  the  chicken. 
Down  he  came,  leisurely  at  first,  spirally  wind- 
ing, as  though  descending  some  aerial  stairway 
from  the  clouds,  till,  just  above  the  tree-tops,  he 
began  to  swing  like  a  great  pendulum  through 
the  air,  turning  his  head  from  side  to  side  as  he 
passed  over  the  chicken,  watching  to  see  if  it 
were  alive.  He  was  about  to  settle  when  I  pulled 
the  string.  Up  he  darted  in  great  fright,  Again 
and  again  I  repeated  the  experiment ;  and  each 
time,  at  the  least  sign  of  life,  the  buzzard  hurried 
oif— afraid  of  so  inoffensive  a  thing  as  a  chicken  ! 
Quite  a  different  story  comes  to  me  from  Penn- 
sylvania). My  correspondent  writes  :  "  Years  ago, 
while  I  was  at  school  in  De  Kalb,  Mississippi,  all 
the  children  had  their  attention  called  to  a  great 
commotion  in  a  chicken-yard  next  the  school- 
house.  It  appeared  that  a  large  hawk  had  settled 
down  and  was  doing  battle  with  a  hen.  My  bro- 
ther left  the  school -house  and  ran  to  the  yard, 
cautiously  opened  the  gate,  slipped  up  behind, 
and  caught  the  <  hawk  '—which  proved  to  be  a 
large  and  almost  famished  turkey-buzzard.  He 
kept  it  four  or  five  days,  when  it  died."  Ex- 
treme hunger  might  drive  a  buzzard  to  at- 
[338] 


tack  a  hen  j   but  rare  indeed  is  such  boldness 
nowadays. 

There  were  by  this  time  fully  a  hundred  buz- 
zards about  me,  some  coming,  some  going,  some 
sitting  moody  and  disgusted,  while  others  picked 
hungrily  among  the  bones.  They  had  no  suspi- 
cion of  my  presence,  but  I  had  grown  tired  of 
them,  and  springing  suddenly  from  the  leaves, 
I  stood  in  their  midst.  There  was  consternation 
and  hissing  for  an  instant,  then  a  violent  flapping 
of  wings,  and  away  they  flew  in  every  direction. 
Their  heavy  bodies  were  quickly  swung  above 
the  trees,  and  soon  they  were  all  sailing  away 
beyond  the  reach  of  straining  eyes.  Presently 
one  came  over  far  up  in  the  blue,  floating  with- 
out effort  among  the  clouds,  now  wheeling  in 
great  circles,  now  swinging  through  immense 
arcs,  sailing  with  stately  grandeur  on  motionless 
wings  in  flight  that  was  sublime. 


[339] 


UP   HERRING   RUN 


UP  HERRING   RUN 

rriHE  habit  of  migrating  is  not  confined  to 
JL  birds.  To  some  extent  it  is  common  to  all 
animals  that  have  to  move  about  for  food,  whe- 
ther they  live  in  the  water  or  upon  the  land. 
The  warm  south  wind  that  sweeps  northward  in 
successive  waves  of  bluebirds  and  violets,  of 
warblers  and  buttercups,  moves  with  a  like  magic 
power  over  the  sea.  It  touches  the  ocean  with 
the  same  soft  hand  that  wakes  the  flowers  and 
brings  the  birds,  and  as  these  return  to  upland 
and  meadow,  the  waters  stir  and  the  rivers  and 
streams  become  alive  with  fish.  Waves  of  stur- 
geon, shad,  and  herring  come  in  from  unknown 
regions  of  the  ocean,  and  pass  up  toward  the 
[343] 


head  waters   of  the    rivers   and    through    the 
smaller  streams  inland  to  the  fresh-water  lakes. 

Waves  of  herring,  did  I  say  ?  It  is  a  torrent 
of  herring  that  rushes  up  Herring  Kun,  a  spring 
freshet  from  the  loosened  sources  of  the  life  of 
the  sea. 

This  movement  of  the  fish  is  mysterious ;  no 
more  so  than  the  migration  of  the  birds,  per- 
haps, but  it  seems  more  wonderful  to  me.  Bobo- 
link's yearly  round  trip  from  Cuba  to  Canada 
may  be,  and  doubtless  is,  a  longer  and  a  more 
perilous  journey  than  that  made  by  the  herring 
or  by  y  any  other  migrant  of  the  sea ;  but  Bobo- 
link's road  and  his  reasons  for  traveling  are  not 
altogether  hidden.  He  has  the  cold  winds  and 
failing  food  to  drive  him,  and  the  older  birds  to 
pilot  him  on  his  first  journey  South,  and  the  love 
of  home  to  draw  him  back  when  the  spring 
comes  North  again.  Food  and  weather  were  the 
first  and  are  still  the  principal  causes  of  his  un- 
rest. The  case  of  the  herring  seems  to  be  differ- 
ent. Neither  food  nor  weather  influences  them. 
They  come  from  the  deep  sea  to  the  shallow 
water  of  the  shore  to  find  lodgment  for  their  eggs 
and  protection  for  their  young  ;  but  what  brings 
[344] 


f 


Ir 


\ 


•  From  unknown  regions  of  the  ocean." 


"  A  crooked,  fretful 
little  stream." 


them  from  the  salt  into 
fresh  water,  and  what 
drives  these  particular 
herring  up  Herring  Run 
instead  of  up  some  other 
stream?  Will  some  one 
please  explain  ? 

Herring  Run  is  the  nat- 
ural outlet  of  Whitman's 
Pond.  It  runs  down 
through  Wey mouth  about 
three  fourths  of  a  mile  to 
Weymouth  Back  River, 
thence  to  the  bay  and 
on  to  the  sea.  It  is  a 
crooked,  fretful  little 
stream,  not  over  twenty 
feet  wide  at  the  most, 
very  stony  and  very  shal- 
low. 

About  a  hundred  years 
ago,  as  near  as  the  oldest 
inhabitants  can  remem- 
ber, a  few  men  of  Wey- 
mouth went  down  to 
Taunton  with  their  ox- 
[346] 


teams,  and  caught  several  barrels  of  herring 
as  they  came  up  the  Taunt-on  Kiver  to  spawn. 
These  fish  they  brought  alive  to  Weymouth 
and  liberated  in  Whitman's  Pond ;  and  these 
became  the  ancestors  of  the  herring  which  have 
been  returning  to  Whitman's  Pond  for  the  last 
century  of  Aprils. 

As  soon  as  the  weather  warms  in  the  spring 
the  herring  make  their  appearance  in  the  Run. 
A  south  wind  along  in  April  is  sure  to  fetch 
them  5  and  from  the  first  day  of  their  arrival, 
for  about  a  month,  they  continue  to  come,  on 
their  way  to  the  pond.  But  they  may  be  delayed 
for  weeks  by  cold  or  storms.  Their  sensitiveness 
to  changes  of  temperature  is  quite  as  delicate  as  a 
thermometer's.  On  a  favorable  day— clear  and 
sunny  with  a  soft  south  wind— they  can  be  seen 
stemming  up-stream  by  hundreds.  Suddenly 
the  wind  shifts,  blowing  up  cold  from  the  east, 
and  long  before  the  nicest  instrument  registers  a 
fraction  of  change  in  the  temperature  of  the 
Run,  the  herring  have  turned  tail  to  and  scur- 
ried off  down-stream  to  the  salt  water. 

They  seem  to  mind  nothing  so  much  as  this 
particular  change  of  the  wind  and  the  cold  that 
follows.     It  may  blow  or  cloud  over,  and  even 
[347] 


rain,  without  affecting  them,  if  only  the  storms 
are  from  the  right  quarter  and  it  stays  warm. 
A  cold  east  wind  always  hurries  them  back  to 
deep  water,  where  they  remain  until  the  weather 
warms  up  again.  Late  in  May,  however,  when 
they  must  lay  their  eggs,  they  ascend  the  stream, 
and  nothing  short  of  a  four-foot  dam  will  effec- 
tually stop  their  progress  to  the  pond. 

They  are  great  swimmers.  It  is  a  live  fish  in- 
deed that  makes  Whitman's  Pond.  There  are 
flying-fish  and  climbing-fish,  fish  that  walk  over 
land  and  fish  that  burrow  through  the  mud ; 
but  in  an  obstacle  race,  with  a  swift  stream  to 
stem,  with  rocks,  logs,  shallows,  and  dams  to  get 
over,  you  may  look  for  a  winner  in  the  herring. 

He  will  get  up  somehow— right  side  up  or 
bottom  side  up,  on  his  head  or  on  his  tail,  swim- 
ming, jumping,  flopping,  climbing,  up  he  comes  ! 
A  herring  can  almost  walk  on  his  tail.  I  have 
watched  them  swim  up  Herring  Run  with  their 
backs  half  out  of  water  j  and  when  it  became  too 
shallow  to  swim  at  all,  they  would  keel  over  on 
their  sides  and  flop  for  yards  across  stones  so 
bare  and  dry  that  a  mud-minnow  might  easily 
have  drowned  upon  them  for  lack  of  water. 
[348] 


fly 


"Swimming,  jumping,  flopping,  climbing,  up  he  comes!" 


They  are  strong,  graceful,  athletic  fish,  quite 
the  ideal  fish  type,  well  balanced  and  bewilder- 
ingly  bony.  The  herring's  bones  are  his  Sam- 
son hair— they  make  his  strength  and  agility 
possible  ;  and  besides  that,  they  are  vast  protec- 
tion against  the  frying-pan. 

When  the  herring  are  once  possessed  of  the 
notion  that  it  is  high  time  to  get  back  to  the 
ancestral  pond  and  there  leave  their  eggs,  they 
are  completely  mastered  by  it.  They  are  not  to 
be  stopped  nor  turned  aside.  Like  Mussulmans 
toward  Mecca  they  struggle  on,  until  an  impass- 
able dam  intervenes  or  the  pond  is  reached. 
They  secern  to  feel  neither  hunger,  fear,  nor 
fatigue,  and,  like  the  salmon  of  Columbia  Eiver, 
often  arrive  at  their  spawning-grounds  so  bat- 
tered and  bruised  that  they  die  of  their  wounds. 
They  become  frantic  when  opposed.  In  Herring 
Bun  I  have  seen  them  rush  at  a  dam  four  feet 
high,  over  which  tons  of  water  were  pouring,  and, 
by  sheer  force,  rise  over  two  feet  in  the  perpen- 
dicular fall  before  being  carried  back.  They 
would  dart  from  the  foam  into  the  great  sheet  of 
falling  water,  strike  it  like  an  arrow,  rise  straight 
up  through  it,  hang  an  instant  in  mid-fall,  and 
[350] 


be  hurled  back,  and  killed  often,  on  the  rocks 
beneath.  Had  there  been  volume  enough  of  the 
falling  water  to  have  allowed  them  a  fair  swim- 
ming chance,  I  believe  that  they  could  have 
climbed  the  dam  through  the  perpendicular 
column. 

Under  the  dam,  and  a  little  to  one  side,  a  "rest," 
or  pen,  has  been  constructed  into  which  the  her- 
ring swim  and  are  caught.  The  water  in  this 
pen  is  backed  up  by  a  gate  a  foot  high.  The 
whole  volume  of  the  stream  pours  over  this  gate 
and  tears  down  a  two-foot  sluiceway  with  velo- 
city enough  to  whirl  along  a  ten-pound  rock 
that  I  dropped  into  the  box.  The  herring  run 
this  sluice  and  jump  the  gate  with  perfect  ease. 
Twelve  thousand  of  them  have  leaped  the  gate 
in  a  single  hour  ;  and  sixty  thousand  of  them 
went  over  it  in  one  day  and  were  scooped  from 
the  pen.  The  fish  always  keep  their  heads  up- 
stream, and  will  crowd  into  the  pen  until  the 
shallow  water  is  packed  with  them.  When  no 
more  can  squeeze  in,  a  wire  gate  is  put  into  the 
sluice,  the  large  gates  of  the  dam  are  closed,  and 
the  fish  are  ladled  out  with  scoop-nets. 

The  town  sold  the  right  to  a  manufacturing 
[351] 


company  to  build  this  dam  in  the  Kun,  together 
with  the  sole  right  to  catch  the  herring,  on  con- 
dition that  yearly  a  certain  number  of  the  fish  be 
carted  alive  to  the  pond  in  order  to  spawn  ;  and 
with  this  further  condition,  that  every  Wey- 
mouth  householder  be  allowed  to  buy  four  him 
dred  herring  at  twenty-five  cents  per  hundred. 

A  century  ago  four  hundred  herring  to  a 
household  might  not  have  been  many  herring  ; 
but  things  have  changed  in  a  hundred  years. 
To-day  no  householder,  saving  the  keeper  of  the 
town  house,  avails  himself  of  this  generous  offer. 
I  believe  that  a  man  with  four  hundred  pickled 
herring/  about  his  premises  to-day  would  be 
mobbed.  Pickled  herring,  scaly,  shrunken, 
wrinkled,  discolored,  and  strung  on  a  stick  in 
the  woodshed,  undoes  every  other  rank  and  bil- 
ious preserve  that  I  happen  to  know.  One  can 
easily  credit  the  saying,  still  current  in  the  town, 
that  if  a  native  once  eats  a  Weymouth  herring 
he  will  never  after  leave  the  place. 

Usually  the  fish  first  to  arrive  in  the  spring 

are  males.     These  precede  the  females,  or  come 

along  with  them  in  the  early  season,  while  the 

fish  to  arrive  last  are  nearly  all  females.     The 

[352] 


few  that  are  taken  alive  to  the  pond  deposit 
their  eggs  within  a  few  days,  and,  after  a  little 
stay,  descend  the  Run,  leap  the  dam,  and  again 
pass  out  into  the  ocean.  The  eggs  are  placed 
along  the  shallow  edges  of  the  pond,  among  the 
reeds  and  sedges.  At  first  they  float  around  in 
a  thin,  viscid  slime,  or  jelly,  which  finally  acts  as 
a  glue  to  fasten  them  to  the  grass.  Here,  left 
without  parental  care,  the  eggs  hatch  and  the 
fry  wiggle  off  and  begin  at  once  to  shift  for 
themselves. 

How  hard  they  fare  !  In  her  sacrifice  of  young- 
fish,  nature  seems  little  better  than  a  bloody 
Aztec.  I  happened  to  be  at  Bay  Side,  a  sturgeon 
fishery  on  the  Delaware  Bay,  when  a  sturgeon 
was  landed  whose  roe  weighed  ninety  pounds.  I 
took  a  quarter  of  an  ounce  of  these  eggs,  counted 
them,  and  reckoned  that  the  entire  roe  numbered 
3,168,000  eggs.  Yet,  had  these  eggs  been  laid, 
not  more  than  one  to  a  million  would  have  de- 
veloped to  maturity.  So  it  is  with  the  herring. 
Millions  of  their  eggs  are  devoured  by  turtles, 
frogs,  pickerel,  and  eels.  Indeed,  young  herring 
are  so  important  a  food-supply  for  fresh-water 
fish  that  the  damming  of  streams  and  the  indis- 
23  [353] 


criminate  slaughter  of  the  spawners  now  seri- 
ously threatens  certain  inland  fishing  interests. 
Many  waters  have  been  re-stocked  with  herring 
as  a  source  of  food  for  more  valuable  fish. 

August  comes,  and  the  youngsters,  now  about 
the  length  of  your  finger,  grown  tired  of  the  fresh 
water  and  the  close  margins  of  the  pond,  find 
their  way  to  the  Run,  and  follow  their  parents 
down  its  rough  bed  to  a  larger  life  in  the  sea. 
Here  again  hungry  enemies  await  them.  In 
untold  numbers  they  fall  a  prey  to  sharks,  cod, 
and  swordfish.  Yet  immense  schools  survive, 
and  thousands  will  escape  even  the  fearful  steam 
nets  of  ihe  menhaden-fishermen  and  see  Herring 
Kun  again. 

If  only  we  could  conjure  one  of  them  to  talk  ! 
What  a  deep-sea  story  he  could  tell !  What 
sights,  what  wanderings,  what  adventures  !  But 
the  sea  keeps  all  her  tales.  We  do  not  know 
even  if  the  herring  from  Whitman's  Pond  live 
together  as  an  individual  clan  or  school  during 
their  ocean  life.  There  are  certain  indications 
that  they  do.  There  is  not  much  about  a  Whit- 
man's Pond  herring  to  distinguish  it  from  a 
Taunton  River  or  a  Mystic  Pond  herring,— the 
[354] 


^v 


,, 


"  Here  again  hungry  enemies  await  them." 

Wey mouth  people  declare  they  can  tell  the 
difference  with  their  eyes  shut,— though  I  be- 
lieve the  fish  themselves  know  one  another,  and 
that  those  of  each  pond  keep  together.  At  least, 
when  the  inland  running  begins,  the  schools  are 
[355] 


united,  for  then  no  Whitman's  Pond  herring  is 
found  with  a  Taunton  River  baud. 

In  late  summer  the  fry  go  down-stream ;  but 
whether  it  is  they  that  return  the  next  spring, 
or  whether  it  is  only  the  older  fish,  is  not  certain. 
It  is  certain  that  no  immature  fish  ever  appear 
in  the  spring.  The  naturalists  are  almost  agreed 
that  the  herring  reach  maturity  in  eighteen 
months.  In  that  case  it  will  be  two  years  before 
the  young  appear  in  the  Run.  The  Weymouth 
fishermen  declare,  however,  that  they  do  not 
seek  the  pond  until  the  third  spring ;  for  they 
say  that  when  the  pond  was  first  stocked,  it  was 
three  ^ears  before  any  herring,  of  their  own 
accord,  made  their  way  back  to  spawn. 

Meantime  where  and  how  do  they  live?  All 
the  ocean  is  theirs  to  roam  through,  though  even 
the  ocean  has  its  belts  and  zones,  its  barriers 
which  the  strongest  swimmers  cannot  pass.  The 
herring  are  among  the  nomads  of  the  sea ;  but 
let  them  wander  never  so  far  through  the  deep, 
you  may  go  to  the  Run  in  April  and  expect  to 
see  them.  Here,  over  the  stones  and  shallows 
by  which  they  found  their  way  to  the  sea,  they 
will  come  struggling  back.  No  mistake  is  ever 
[356] 


made,  no  variation,  no  question  as  to  the  path. 
On  their  way  up  the  river  from  the  bay  they 
will  pass  other  fresh- water  streams,  as  large,  even 
larger,  than  Herring  Kun.  But  their  instinct  is 
true.  They  never  turn  aside  until  they  taste 
the  Run,  and  though  myriads  enter,  a  half-mile 
farther  up  the  river  not  a  herring  will  be  found. 
It  is  easy  to  see  how  the  ox  might  know  his 
owner,  and  the  ass  his  master's  crib ;  but  how  a 
herring,  after  a  year  of  roving  through  the  sea, 
knows  its  way  up  Herring  Eun  to  the  pond,  is 
past  finding  out. 


[357] 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

Bio!  'T 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


6C 


„_____ 


Berkeley 


" 


